


This Too Shall Pass

by DarthPeezy



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Robin: Son of Batman (Comics)
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Child Abuse, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne-centric, Dehumanization, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Not Canon Compliant, Year of Blood references, no beta - we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-19 00:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29866386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthPeezy/pseuds/DarthPeezy
Summary: “You were made for greater things,” Mother says gently.“The greatest thing I was made for was to make my own choices,” he hisses, refusing to let Mother control him. “This is what I choose day in and day out. I neither seek nor need your approval. I moved on from you long ago.”Or, you can take the boy out of the assassin’s household, but you can’t separate the fucked up kid from the assassin. Especially one raised as an object, a thing to be owned, a vessel for his Grandfather’s mad plans.Damian, going from an object to be owned to a person who is loved.
Relationships: Batfamily Members & Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Talia al Ghul & Damian Wayne
Comments: 35
Kudos: 197





	This Too Shall Pass

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, my brain decided we should write some Damian Wayne fic instead of studying for exams.

Memory is a fickle, cruel thing. Moments in life are traumatic and painful. No human is meant to remember them all. The boy who will be named Vessel and Heir and Hafidh and Damian will remember it all. From that very first spark of consciousness in the swirling darkness back when he didn’t have concepts for darkness to the very last moments of life. He remembers being ripped from his mother’s womb alongside another and bottled in a jar. He remembers laying eyes upon his mother for the first time and even then, he _knew_ her, just as he knew the twin whom he will never meet.

On the day he is removed from his incubation pod, the nameless boy meets the Demon. The eternal Lord stares at him, assessing him, jade eyes cutting in their regard.

“You shall know me by my name,” the Demon says. “You are my flesh to come, vessel.”

It is with precise hands that the Demon swaddles the boy in cloth and places him in a carry basket. His world had been a tank and the occasional glimpse of his mother, but now it is a man who smells of blood and eternity, the frigid winds of the early morning winter, the sight of hoarfrost and the sounds of a Demon free-climbing a mountain with a baby on his back.

At the summit, the Demon crosses his legs and places the boy upon his lap. Even though the winds are chilling, he is shielded by the robes of his Grandfather. It is the first and only kindness he will ever receive from this towering legend of a man.

“My people are dead, Vessel of mine. They lived far longer than they had any right to do so, carrying with them a language that should have died centuries prior. One day in the future, perhaps yours shall be the only living lips that speak that dead language.”

For three days, the Demon will speak in the language of the dead, teaching the vessel a history he should not remember. He remembers it anyway.

 _(I saw in a dream that I gave birth to a son of gold_ , the Demon will say to him in that language Hafidh will trace back the Himyarite people. And he will learn that Ra’s told the truth as that language should have died half a millennium before the Demon was even an idea. On that day, in a lost tomb during his Year of Blood, Hafidh will stand in awe of the history that came before him, of a people dead for centuries but that live on through Hafidh, only three generations removed from the last head of that nomadic tribe. He will understand the impermanence of time and lineages surrounded by shattered skeletons of his ancestors that he had to slay once more. _This too shall pass_ , he will say reverently, _but the Demon will remain through me_.)

Mother is perplexed by his existence. She does not nurse him as that is something unbefitting the Daughter of the Demon. He is fed intravenously on a perfect mix of nutrients for his first months as Mother pursues her interest in genetic manipulation upon his flesh. It is painful and hurts and he weeps and weeps and weeps. Mother takes to wearing earplugs during the procedures, but when it is done, she will always place her palm over his brow until he falls silent.

He takes comfort in that tiny action.

The day he takes his first steps, Grandfather places a knife in his hand. It is too big for the Vessel to grip properly but he will grow into it quickly. The Demon’ training sessions are relentless. When the Vessel falls and cries, Grandfather backhands him.

“Fight or die,” the Demon commands when the Vessel lands in a painful heap. “I have no use for weakness in my vessel.”

And so, the Vessel to come stands on shaky legs and forces himself to fight till Grandfather calls an end to their session.

Afterwards, he will continue his lessons in history and tactics and warfare. His exhaustion from his sessions with Grandfather is no excuse for anything less than perfection, and though Grandfather passes on his teaching to another instructor, he will always know Grandfather is watching. He does not fail. Cannot fail.

It takes him until three to realise that he has no true name. Grandfather calls him _Vessel_ and Talia _boy_ , but there are many vessels—vessels for storage, vessels for blood, ships and cargo—and there are many boys, all whom he eventually defeats in their spars.

He is nameless, yes, but he is of the al Ghul blood. _Heir_ , they call him when they must address him. It feels true as a name, more than just a title. Mother, loyal and excellent, is not heir though she commands the League with Father’s implicit authority.

At the age of four, he is baptised in blood. His skills with a sword are acceptable enough that he is permitted to take the first steps that will lead to the Year of Blood. The woman before him is a traitor to the League and has been tortured for hours. She is in agony, suspended by wires that dig painfully into her flesh. Mother points out the veins and arteries in the traitor’s neck, explaining how best to slice and with what type of weapon.

“Of course, at the end of the day, a slit throat is a slit throat. It is not a cruel death. Far less painful than many. Show her mercy, boy. Free her from this suffering.”

The boy does so, slicing through her throat easily and without emotion. The woman, hoisted above him, bleeds out in a torrent of red that the boy stands in. Blood coats him, thick and sticky and cloying. He hates how warm it is and yet everything feels frigid.

Mother will pull him away, uncaring of the blood now coating her hand, and present him to Grandfather. The Demon stands upon a balcony overlooking a courtyard filled with assassins battling to the death.

Mother will smirk her meaningless smirk at Grandfather. “Even my hands shook,” she says. “The boy’s did not.”

“A failing of your upbringing,” Grandfather says just as blandly as one assassin falls, a blade in his chest. “What is it you wish?”

“Hafidh,” Mother declares, staring at Grandfather. “It will be the boy’s name.”

Grandfather merely nods. “Hafidh of the line al Ghul. The scribes will chisel _its_ name unto the family stone when the _body_ completes _its_ training.”

“Thank you, Father. My son will not disappoint you.”

 _Hafidh_ , he tests, rolling the name in his mouth, tasting it, and accepting the third name he has been given after _Vessel_ , and _Heir_.

In the dead of night, his mother will sneak into his room, awakening Hafidh who sits upright. She will sit beside him, leaving no room between them. She is warm and unyielding in equal measure.

“I do not understand this lesson,” he admits in a voice he will remember as too whiny despite the perfectly sharp tones of Arabic, his supposed first language, though his second in truth.

“You did not hesitate. You did not flinch. You made Grandfather proud.”

In her lap, is a parcel wrapped in parchment. She unrolls it, revealing the thick, circular pastries within. She feeds him the first sweet of his life and begins a sugar addiction that will never truly die. Later, he will learn that the pastry that melts in his mouth and sets his whole body ablaze is called maamool.

For a single moment at the end, when he stares at the empty parchment in utter disappointment, he believes he sees Mother smile. It is the first smile he will ever receive. He thinks that this is love and knows he will need to kill that feeling. A Vessel is meant to be empty before it is filled.

It changes little to be named, only gives his instructors a different term to use when his failures are particularly egregious. It forces him to be better, to break bones efficiently in spars and to kill without mercy. Only when he is perfect is he permitted a few minutes to himself, time he uses to hide the failings deep in his chest.

His training never ceases. He learns combat from a dozen tutors, learning how to fight with swords of varying origin. Soon, everyone learns his affinity for the blade. It can be any blade, but when placed in Hafidh’s hands, it becomes a thing of beautiful efficiency. Every motion is graceful, every parry elegant, and every strike filled with lethal intent. For three years he will hone his skills. Such is his skill that Grandfather sets him to battle a girl two years his senior whom he will learn is his cousin Mara.

The battle is not won easily. Damian walks away bloody and bruised, his left eyes sealed shut and a deep gash in his shoulders, but he walks away the victor. He stands before Grandfather without trembling though his twisted ankle aches and he undoubtedly has two broken ribs.

“Acceptable for my future vessel.” Grandfather looks past Hafidh at the girl kneeling in defeat. “You dishonour Dusan. Train until you may serve a purpose to the name al Ghul.”

Hafidh’s recovery, he will later learn, is not normal. Most would take two months to heal, let alone be in fighting strength. Hafidh will be twirling on the training mats within the month. But before that, Mother will teach him the names of the al Ghul lineage: the defective Dusan and the traitorous Nyssa and the ancient Sensei buried after an earthquake. Failures and traitors the lot of them.

“Under heaven and Earth, you alone are the honoured one to bear the al Ghul name. You may never fail, darling child. Ra’s will not accept failure from you. There have been far too many betrayals. Only a loyal vessel may exist, and if your mindless clones must be used, then they will.”

“I will not fail Grandfather.”

“I know you will not. You follow the correct path, unlike your Father.”

“He lives? I assumed you killed him after my conception.”

Mother laughs suddenly, a high and clear sound. “Your father is a great warrior. He bested your Grandfather.”

“Impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible. It is why he was worthy of being your sire.”

“If he is worthy, then why is he not here?”

“His road cannot exist alongside the al Ghul. He wages a futile war that will never end. It is impossible for him to win, and yet, he fights anyway. A strange contradiction. If he gave in and killed, he would not be worthy of my affection and yet, I cannot be with him. Our paths can never align. Only occasionally will they converge. You are that convergence.”

Hafidh nods, not truly understanding. “I wish to meet this great warrior.”

“Perhaps one day.”

*

*

*

Time passes and Hafidh grows taller, practising ceaselessly to be worthy of the al Ghul name. Sometimes, he is permitted to accompany Shadows and observe the ways they move, how they stalk their targets and slip past security measures. The smarter Shadows use him as a distraction but Hafidh does not care much, too distracted by the strange sights and sounds and people.

On very rare occasion, when he can slip out unnoticed, he steals sweets and candies, gorging himself in private.

(When he is nine, he will go through the Year of Blood, slaughtering his way through families and cities and ancient ruins. It will break him, grind his spirit till all that remains is the perfect weapon. In the few moments he has to himself, he will find comfort in treats he steals.)

The al Ghul home is suspiciously quiet on his return. Hafidh finds no tutors waiting for him and seeks out Mother.

And regrets it almost immediately.

There is a man in his mother’s room laying on her bed. Not a strange sight by any means. Mother has a revolving door of people to serve her interests. That isn’t what shocks him. It is the almost tenderness in the way Mother sits, carding her fingers through the man’s hair.

“Who is this?”

“Your father’s son,” Mother says casually.

Hafidh’s world spins on its axis as he tries to understand, tries to comprehend this impossibility. Why would Talia permit any child of hers to not have her features, the same features Hafidh carries? The man has d dark hair, pale skin, and far too large a skeletal structure for an al Ghul.

“Did you copulate with my brother?” he squeaks out.

Mother blinks slowly, utterly surprised, her hands stopping in their motion.

“I did not have sex with the child,” she snaps out.

Hafidh refuses to flinch. Bad enough that he asked that question without thought, but any weakness now will get him punished severely.

“Apologies, Mother. I did not know I had a brother.”

“He is your father’s son.”

“Was he grown outside an incubator?”

“Of course.”

Hafidh finds himself far more confused. There aren’t supposed to be any additional heirs to the al Ghul family. The others have all proven themselves far too incompetent or traitorous. So why has Grandfather allowed the existence of another Grandson?

“What is his name?”

“Jason Todd Wayne.”

Hafidh keeps still, watching Mother out the corner of his eye. “Father allowed him to use his name.”

“Your Father did have a habit of stealing children.”

“Why?”

“Child soldiers are easy enough to teach, I suppose.” Mother looks down at her son whom Hafidh didn’t even know existed. “They die just as easily.”

“I will not die,” he assures Mother. “I will not sully my Grandfather’s Vessel through death.”

For a moment that he will later believe fantasy though his perfect memory says otherwise, there is a spark of grief to his mother. Her lips twitch just the slightest, pulled downward at the corner. For a woman of efficiency and economy, it is as if she broke down on the floor, wailing in her grief.

(Years later, he will kneel before the grave of her final death. He will not cry or reveal any emotion, but nothing was ever unknown to Mother. She knew him from the very double-helix that forged him. And when he thinks of that, he will remember her lips twitching down, and know _he is loved_ and he will cry uncontrollably because she was Mother first).

Mother pinches the man on a nerve cluster. He almost jackknifes as he awakens, confusion writ large on his features.

His eyes are green as the Lazarus Pits just as Grandfather’s and Mother’s and Hafidh’s. For all that Mother did not genetically alter his features—and maybe he was Mother’s first attempts at genetic modification—he carries the Eyes of the Demon.

“Come,” Mother commands, rising, and Todd rises with her.

Hafidh follows the, taking a place on Mother’s right side as his supposed brother follows with vacant eyes on her left. They descend into the main training halls and Hafidh understands what is to happen. Casually, he breaks away from the pair, walking to the other side of the training hall.

Mother drapes herself over Jason affectionately, leaning in to stage whisper, “the new Robin.”

Hafidh has seen Pit Madness once before after Grandfather perished from a terrible magic ritual that involved the communion of demons and the blood of dozens of innocents. Whatever toll that death took had left Grandfather a violent killing machine for the evening, with both Mother and Hafidh hiding. Grandfather’s eyes had burnt green like twin stars.

Jason’s burn the same way.

The fight that ensues is a lesson in being utterly outclassed. Hafidh has blades and sanity and training since birth. Todd has raw strength and Pit magics increasing his already brutal strengths. Jason Todd is a physical colossus and his speed comparable to Hafidh. Pure skill alone cannot make the difference between muscle mass and height.

He gets a few good hits in but he lacks the mass to make them matter. His blade tears through flesh but Todd feels no pain. Todd grabs Hafidh’s skull in one meaty hand and then he slams it down.

Blackness. Pain even through that blackness.

Hafidh awakens slowly. His ears ring and blood blinds him. His cheekbone is broken, he knows even through the pain. Slowly, he rises to his knees, feeling as though he will die.

When he wipes the blood from his eyes, he is greeted to his brother is on his knees, shaking, trembling with the effects of the Pit. Surrounding him are Shadows, swords drawn, ready to end the existence of Hafidh’s sibling.

Then Hafidh notices Grandfather beside Mother, both watching proceeding emotionlessly. Hafidh scrambles to his feet and meets Grandfather’s piercing gaze. He wants to look away, but to do so is to admit his weakness and Grandfather loathes weakness.

“Grandfather.”

“Vessel. An unimpressive demonstration.” Hafidh shows none of his shame. “And you, Daughter, why do you waste my time with the Vessel’s failings? If you wish to reduce it to back to genetic material, you do not need my permission.”

“I wish to keep Todd. He will be useful in training Hafidh against the Bat. Don’t you agree, darling?”

Hafidh keeps his gaze locked with Grandfather, awaiting permission. “Answer,” Grandfather says.

Finally, he turns just lightly to face Mother. “I am told the Bat was a great warrior,” Hafidh rasps out. “If I am to face him, then I must be prepared.”

“The League is not sufficient for you?” Grandfather asks blandly.

“He is a League asset now,” Hafidh says, sidestepping the trap neatly. “The League does not permit wastefulness.”

A sharp gesture from Grandfather and the Shadows vanish. “Shadows will not save the vessel if it perishes.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Work on its emotions. It reveals too much.”

Fighting Todd becomes a brutal routine in a way Hafidh does not understand. The League is filled with the greatest martial warriors in the world. Jason Todd fights like a brawler with pretensions of boxing. And yet, and yet, there are no holes in his defence. Every blow is filled with such crushing power that Hafidh spends so much time in the air he perfects the art of fighting there. And letting Todd grab you is the fastest way to lose.

Even Hafidh’s enhanced healing cannot keep up with Todd’s damage and each subsequent day puts him in a more disadvantageous position. But he fights through fractures and sprains and deep bruises, even if his body only wants to give out. At one point, he loses a fight in seconds, Todd’s punch knocking him out.

Lucidity only occasionally breaks through his brother’s Pit madness like tonight when Hafidh sneaks into the boy’s room to… he’s not sure why exactly he’s here, but something draws him to Todd.

“Who are you? I see you. Glimpses. Moments.” A bright flicker of green that Todd fights through. “Who?”

“Your brother.”

“Don’t have one.”

“I am Ibn al Xu'ffasch.”

“Son of the Bat?”

Hafidh nods. “I will not repeat myself. Mother hid me from you and Father did the same.”

“That’s not pos—”

“Do not tell me I am impossible when I stand before you.”

He steps closer, crowding his ignorant brother. What a fool. It explains why he died, why he is scarred by a pathetic creature such as the Joker.

“I did that,” Jason says dully, fighting through the haze of madness. It is admirable.

“What?”

He permits the touch, flesh still tender and stinging with the slight pressure.

Hafidh nods. “You punish my slow instep with a jab. Very few can. It is an honour worthy of my brother.”

“Not your brother,” Todd slurs.

Hafidh scowls. He backhands Todd abruptly. Or tries to. His hand is caught before it can make contact.

Todd’s rictus grin will haunt Hafidh. “Seeing a lotta green. Don’t be stupid.”

“Unhand me, you misbegotten son.”

“The hell’s your name, kid.”

“If you can’t figure that out then I should have killed you myself. Pathetic.”

“Whatever, Demon Brat.”

“Call me that again and I will maim you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

*

*

*

His next mission is a simple scouting mission with a rather generous week to complete what should be a three-day objective. Whether intentional or not, Mother has given him a few more days to recover which his busted leg thanks him for. When he’s done, he walks through a market in Beirut, observing other children and mimicking them, learning how to blend in better.

A brilliant spot of colour pulls Hafidh from his observation. There, hidden behind a dozen mannequins and racks, is a vest with a dipping hood that is far too large for Hafidh. Far larger than anything he could possibly fit into. And whilst League armour is a deep maroon, that’s mostly to hide bloodstains. This is a bright crimson and stands out in the dingy darkness of the store. He’s seen it once before when he searched up his Father and saw the ridiculous boy standing beside him. This red is a red that means hope and freedom and magic in Gotham’s dingy darkness. 

It is Robin red.

He knows then and there that it must be given to Todd. Just as it is impossible to imagine Mother in anything but green dresses and sari, it is impossible to imagine Todd without this. Smuggling it into al Ghul island isn’t exactly easy and modifying it to have more pouches and armour plates without anyone else knowing almost ends in failure a few times.

The mask takes far longer, stolen and forged from bits and pieces throughout Hafidh’s missions, shaped almost like a demon’s jaw on the bottom half, which is largely a side-effect of the rebreather, brimming with studs to attach the fabric top half which resembles Batman’s cowl. Hafidh would have preferred something form-fitting but that would involve getting Todd to sit for measurements.

When Mother catches him one day, Hafidh feels his heart catch in his throat. No one is meant to know this weakness blooming in his chest. Mother merely curls her lips in… distaste, maybe, perhaps affection or threat. It could be all three. And though Hafidh waits the entire week expecting a surprise attack, nothing comes.

(In the future, he will piece together that his Mother gave up on her plots to use Todd because of that one moment. Though she may hate Father, she loves him as well, and that love is destructive, but there is a smidgen of purity to the way she loves Hafidh, bright enough that she chooses not to set Todd down a path of bloodshed and madness. He never forgives her but knowing that does help him move on.)

Todd stares at the mask and hooded vest when Hafidh presents them proudly. “The hell is this?”

“Yours.”

“Why?”

What answer is Todd expecting? Hafidh is Heir and it is his duty to see his future followers in a position to grow strong. It is protective and will stay away injuries. Todd is older, yes, but Hafid is responsible for him.

“It is necessary,” he settles on. “You can no longer be Robin. Another has stolen that mantle.”

“So instead, I get to be discount Scorpion.”

Hafidh blinks, confused. “Scorpions are supremely adapted to their environment.”

“You’ve never played Mortal Kombat?”

“Why would you consider a battle to the death a game?”

Todd frowns, working through a complicated set of emotions. “You wanna come to Gotham?”

“Grandfather has no need for me there.”

“Your Father is there.”

“He has no need for me.”

“What if I want you there? You could make sure I don’t do anything stupid. There’s a whole bunch of candy.”

“Whatever test this is—”

“No test. I’m going back to Gotham.”

“You can’t.”

“I have to. I need to sort shit out there. Might kill the Joker. Maybe Bruce. Who knows, but I need to go back.”

“No.”

“Come with me.”

“No. Mother will not permit you to leave.”

“She’s got my plane ticket ready.”

Hafidh closes his eyes. “I see. Do as you please, you imbecile. Return to that mediocre city and become something lesser.”

“Kid, come on. You don’t have to stay here.”

“I am Heir. I will not abandon my duties.” He forces his eyes open and looks anywhere but Todd’s face. “Do not tell Father of me. Leave, but do not betray me further.”

When Todd leaves, Hafidh does not see him off. There is no room in the League for such weakness. When Todd is gone, Grandfather permits Hafidh to undergo the initiation rites of the League.

To become an initiate in the League is to be drugged with a powerful hallucinogen and left in the desert, struck by maddening visions of death on your journey to your first target. It kills those weak and unsuited to the task. Hafidhwalks across scorching hot sands, plagued by the memories of his twin sister bottled in a jar, emerging to kill and usurp all that he has worked towards. Todd in the throes of Pit madness strangling Hafidh time and time again. Bats clawing his flesh from his bones and Demons dragging him to the pits of hell.

The hallucinations are physically painful, his nerves burning with each vision. He knows the pain of fire, of drowning, of being stabbed over and over and over again. The physical blends with the spiritual and the mental till all he knows is pain.

He nearly dies from a scorpion sting. The venom is a quick-acting blood poison. He barely notices it as his world is one of confusion and pain as it is. But a part of him acts to slow the beating of his heart and enter a trance. He notices that he walks in circles, feet dragging through the dust, but he does not consciously recognise the symbols he draws upon the earth.

It is magic gleaned from a thousand different snatches of time, all hiding in the back of his mind and only made rational at this moment.

The cleansing process is far more painful than the poisons he’s been affected by. At the heights of his pain, he wishes Grandfather hadn’t permitted the existence of a Vessel. He wishes Mother were here to hold him tight and feed him lokum after waterboarding training or that Todd would hold him close or that Mara was here, insulting him, just so he could beat her down and prove his strength. Anything but this agony.

For a moment, when the sun finally peeks over the horizon, the world is bathed in gold. Hafidh stands slowly, pulling himself from the dirt, and being born again in the golden warmth of the sun.

 _I saw in a dream that I gave birth to a son of gold_ , he remembers and whispers reverently in the Demon’s language.

It is through the golden day that Hafidh trudges forward, gaining strength slowly with each step. The poison is out of his system, but the effects linger.

And when he finally finds his target after days of tracking, he finds the woman with her family. Hafidh stares at them, his throat closing tightly when she shows him kindness, gives him bread and water and lets him cleanse his body of dirt and grime in the privy. And in return, he will end her family lineage. There can be no witnesses.

“I hope we don’t meet in the next life.”

There is only one place for the Demon’s Heir. He does not think this family deserves that fate.

He walks away, the blazing home warming his neck as he escapes.

*

*

*

“What is that putrid smell?”

“Gotham, darling one.”

“Why would Father debase himself by living here?”

“He is a sentimental fool. You will learn to live with his eccentricities.”

“Just as I must live with a new name?”

“Yes, Damian. Nothing will last forever.”

“Except Grandfather.”

“It was not my choice,” Mother says softly. It is the closest she will ever get to rebuking Grandfather.

“Accepting it was.”

“You will learn to fit your name.”

Damian doesn’t understand why they are to visit Father. He’s never given any indication of wanting to meet the man and yet, she had argued with Grandfather for this in her subtly vicious way, wearing the man down for years. Each attempt to uncover her reasons had ended in failure and severe punishment so Damian has given up entirely.

“What if he does not wish to keep this vessel?”

Mother pauses for just a moment, something like discomfort on her face. “Defy him. Show him your strength.”

Infiltrating the Cave is painfully easy. The network of tunnels and caverns are easily navigated by Mother and Damian who follows a bit behind, taking extra care to remain hidden and avoid any sort of sensor. Mother does the same, though her skills are borne from antagonising Batman as part of their strange fling.

The Cave itself is vast and well-lit, metal platforms extending past smooth stones, dripping stalactites and computers banks that apparently don’t get damaged. Somehow. Damian inches across the ceiling, moving in time with Mother’s near-silent steps to mask his movements.

“Talia,” the Bat intones, not turning away from his screen.

It displays some ongoing investigation involving Two-Face. That he does not turn it off means he trusts Mother or is unthreatened by her.

“How many has he killed since his latest Arkham escape?” Mother asks, sitting on the chair’s armrest, the sheer volume of her dress draping over Batman. “How many children will never see their parents again because you refuse to truly deal with the vermin infecting your city?”

The Bat only grunts, flicking through more files. Mother presses a kiss to his temple. “Ignoring me, Beloved?”

“You’ll tell me what you want eventually.”

“What if I want you?”

“When you haven’t killed someone in the last six months, I might consider believing you.”

“Such a lack of faith in you, Beloved. Is it so surprising that I yearned for your company? I missed you, dear one.”

“You aren’t capable of those emotions.”

“Such hurtful words.”

“Whatever schemes you—”

“No scheme, Beloved. Only a gift for you.”

Damian drops down, cloak billowing dramatically, and hating Mother’s need to make a spectacle. He lands on a railing just beyond Father’s peripheral vision.

“Father. I thought you would be taller.”

The Bat glances at him coldly, before returning to Mother. As if Damian is inconsequential, a data point to be discarded. And Damian just… has no idea what to do with that level of indifference.

“That’s why you went off the grid a decade ago. The end of the first trimester. You continued growing him in an artificial womb. That puts his conception to April. You weren’t on your period when we were together.”

“Do you think such trivialities matter to me, Beloved?”

“I don’t think hiding my own son from me counts as a triviality. How many people have you had him kill? He moves like any League assassin.”

“And this is why I chose not to tell you.” Mother stands, pulling away from the Bat. “You would have stopped him from blossoming. As an assassin, his training is complete, and he is peerless.”

“Talia,” the Bat grounds out.

“He does not hesitate to kill. Name the target and he will not fail. You should be proud. Now, you will teach him to be a soldier.”

“I don’t train soldiers.”

“Your children certainly die like soldiers.”

Batman rises suddenly and Damian finally understands just how tall the man is, the overwhelming menace that is the Bat. There is nothing but cold desolation, a rationality that will pick apart every weakness and destroy you.

“Don’t start, Talia. You think I can’t recognise what you did.”

“I simply returned him to you. A boy needs his Father.” She leaves a kiss on the corner of Father’s cheek, uncaring of the tightly coiled violence that is Batman.

“You’ve changed your paralytic.”

“Indeed,” Mother says fondly. “Goodbye, Beloved, Damian, be a worthy heir to the Bat mantle.”

“Yes, Mother.”

That is how Mother disappears from his life, leaving him behind with a stranger. Damian stays crouched on the railing. It is a good position, allowing him to drop down to the level before should Father be a threat. It is also a good position to leap forward and initiate the attack.

“Do you know who I am?”

“You are the Bat, the one who defeated Grandfather, and the one who will forge this body into a weapon.”

“That’s al Ghul thinking,” the Bat says tonelessly. “There is nothing good that comes from that family and I will not have it in this household.”

“You would deny me my name.”

“It isn’t a worthy name.”

Already, Damian knows he’s going to hate this man. He knew that being an al Ghul would not be acceptable, but to simply tear the name away and give him nothing in return? Fine, he’ll earn the Wayne name and make Father regret this insult one day.

“Come.”

“No,” he says defiantly, recalling Mother’s words.

“I will not deal with your insubordination.”

Damian flicks his hand, a knife flying. Batman dodges sluggishly, Mother’s paralytic lipstick still working. “And I will not serve a weak man.”

Damian gets one good punch in with all his strength. It barely makes Father’s head tilt. The fight, if it can be called that, lasts only exactly as long as Father wants. His sword fails to make contact, his blades hitting only air, and his blows ineffective against Father’s mass. The moment he goes for a truly lethal blow, Father brings him down to his knees.

His arm hurts terribly, almost popped out of its socket. The weight of Father’s foot on his ankle threatening to break it.

“That won’t work here. I am not your Mother. I will not indulge your whims. You will obey me, _boy_. Do not push my patience.”

This is the man Mother loves and Damian understands why. Strength and indomitable will wrapped up in pure menace.

“As you say, Father.”

Father lets go and Damian scrambles to his feet, watching him warily, wondering what the punishment will be for that challenge.

“I’ve called an emergency meeting. Stay there.”

Damian waits in the vastness of the Cave as Father returns to his files, back turned to Damian. An insult, yes, but Father has already beaten Damian down and proved his position.

Nightwing appears with a flip, dropping soundlessly beside Damian who refuses to startle. This is Father’s first child, the one first in line to succeed the mantle of the Bat. The current Heir until Damian supplants him.

“Heya, B, and who is this little tyke?”

Father grunts. “This is—”

“Who the fuck is invading the Cave on my fucking day off!” Todd roars, stumbling into the Cave. He is dressed in pyjamas, over which lay the red-hooded vest Damian gave him, the lower half of the mask loosely secured on his face. Eyes bloodshot, he looks just as pathetic as usual.

“I swear to fucking God if you’re making this much noise and it ain’t the end of the world I will—”

“Todd,” Damian snaps. “You embarrass your lineage with each breath you take. Silence yourself.”

“Demon brat?”

“I will maim you.”

“Shit, it is the end of the world.”

Damian easily steps aside from Todd’s eager embrace, sticking his foot out so the fool stumbles to his knees. Damian’s knife is out—and he ignores the shouts of surprise—and resting against Todd’s face. Father does not react to this, almost indifferent, so he too must find Todd an embarrassment.

The fool laughs breathlessly. “You’re here.”

“Stating the obvious is not an admirable trait.”

“Kid, the hell are you doing here?”

“Do not call me kid.”

“It’s what you are.”

“I am Father’s Heir, not you, brother.”

“Jason’s got a brother,” Grayson squeaks. “A whole brother and how the hell is he Bruce’s kid unless… oh my God, is Talia your mother? Oh fuck, she’s hit on me before.”

Damian blinks slowly, praying against all hope that Mother didn’t decide to make a Grayson clone. He would prefer not to kill another sibling.

“I need to sit down,” Grayson says airily. “I need to sit down.”

Damian does not look away from Todd, pleased that his eyes still burn with the waters of Lazarus. “Then do so instead of repeating yourself. Tell me, Father, is there such a lack of quality in this vile trash heap of a city that you need to surround yourself with idiots, incompetents, and impostors?”

“Nightwing, sit down,” Father—no, this is the Bat right now, imposing and dangerous who gives that order. “Jason, stop making inflammatory comments. Talia has no genetic relationship to you and you know it.”

Damian keeps his confusion in check. Did Talia sire Jason through more magical means as opposed to genetic?

“So short and violent ain’t your brother?”

“He is,” Todd says flatly. “He’s also Bruce’s kid.”

“I’m sorry,” Grayson says, pinching his nose, “you knew about Bruce’s kid?”

“Yup.”

“And you didn’t tell us?”

“Not like you asked.”

Damian steps forward, silencing them. “It was an order that Todd followed perfectly.”

“I don’t take orders from anyone you little—”

“And though he may be a fool, it was ultimately at my instruction. Knowing my existence would serve no purpose to Father.”

“Damian, keep quiet,” Father orders.

His mouth closes and he stands rigidly as Father glares at Todd.

“You hid this from me.”

Damian takes note of that. _Hid this,_ not _hid him_. It gladdens Damian that his Father is aware of his purpose as a vessel. It will hopefully make things easier.

“Stating the obvious here, Bruce. I wasn’t going to tell you so you could steal him from his mother. Not when he didn’t want shit to do with you.”

“Talia is not anything approaching a mothering influence.”

“Fuck you. At least she didn’t get her kid killed.”

“Jay—”

“Fuck off, Bruce. You raise child soldiers and tell us we’re doing something magical until we fucking die in your damned war. You wrote it on my plaque. _A good soldier_. Fuck that. Talia’s a fucking bitch but at least she’s honest about what she does.”

That’s the first time Damian’s ever heard anyone call Mother honest. It silences Father for a moment that Todd seizes.

“Imma show the kid to my room. Got a problem with that?” Father grunts, turning and striding back to the computer. “I’ll take that as a no.”

Damian spends the night in Todd’s room, crouched in a corner, knife held ready. He knows Todd won’t hurt him. His brother— _is he my brother? Was that a lie as well?_ —is loyal to Damian, enough so that he would defy Father. There will be consequences and Damian is prepared for them, ready to kill whatever assailant walks through the door.

He still can’t believe Todd is snoring away, completely vulnerable, but then again, Damian is here now. As Heir, ensuring the survival of the household falls on him. Maybe Todd knows that.

“That is not the most tactical position to watch this room,” Father says, beside Damian who blinks, wondering how someone as large as Father entered a room and snuck up on him. “With me.”

Damian tilts his head. “No.”

Father catches Damian by the wrist. His glare is murderous. “Don’t push me further.”

Damian permits Father to drag him back to the Cave. It seems that the punishment will be his alone. Either Mother was wrong about Father enjoying defiance or she wants him dead.

Father shoves Damian into a seat. A camera is mounted on the desk and in front of it a computer.

“Begin,” Father says, just as the first question appears on the screen.

The barrage of tests leaves Damian shaking in rage by the end. Father is relentless as he drills Damian in everything from the sciences to history to geopolitics to engineering to pattern recognition to codebreaking. It lasts for hours, interrupted only by the servant who appears to serve Father tea and sandwiches that neither Father nor Damian eats, and during that time, Father eviscerates any preconception Damian had of intelligence. Perfect memory or not, Father is unimpressed in every regard.

The only other interruption comes from Grayson, dressed in casual sweats and a black shirt.

“B, Alfred sent me to check on you.”

“Alfred worries over nothing.” He tilts his head slightly. “Make yourself useful. Spar with the boy.”

“Seriously, B?”

“Was I unclear?”

Damian rolls his shoulders, watching Grayson carefully. The man is Father’s heir, and he is still alive, which means he’s stronger than Todd.

Hand to hand combat isn’t Damian’s forte. He just doesn’t have the mass to make use of his skills as effectively. Grayson is smaller and physically weaker than Todd, but he makes up for it in pure speed and excellent combat technique.

“You’re good for your age,” Grayson says easily. “You’ve perfected the League style.” Damian’s next strike is avoided easily. “Unfortunately, I learnt how to dismantle it years ago.”

Damian flips onto the railing, backing away gracefully towards the weapon rack.

It is an old weapon, cared for, yes, but neglected and unloved. In Damian’s hands, it comes to life. And yet, for all that swords obey him as assassins obey Grandfather, Damian is outclassed. Truly, Grayson is the pinnacle of Father’s war. Oh, he slices through Grayson’s clothes and scores a few hits, even managing to sneak in an elbow to Grayson’s liver, but that’s when Grayson decides to end the match.

In a moment, Damian is on his back, a boot on his chest pinning him. The point of his own blade is pressed against Damian’s throat.

“You’re really good.”

Damian refuses to react to the condescending insult. “Do it, cur.”

Grayson tilts his head. “Do what?”

“You would dare insult me further?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The battle is won only when the killing stroke is dealt,” Damian snaps fearlessly. “No weakness. No hesitation. No mercy for fools.”

“Yeah, well, then I guess I’m a fool. I won’t kill you. Not now. Not ever.”

“Destruction follows mercy.”

(Years from now, Damian will realise how true those words. Grayson’s mercy will destroy all that Damian is, all that he was forged to be, and reveal someone new in the ashes of that destruction.)

“Wow, you’re a piece of work. B, I hope you remember something from those parenting books you never read.”

Father, Damian learns, favours grunting over actual speech. He dismisses Grayson with a casual flick of his hand which has Grayson rolling his eyes.

“Don’t forget dinner.”

“How many people have you killed?” Father asks sharply when Grayson has left.

“Directly?” Father’s expression darkens. Foolish. Don’t ever answer a question with another question. “Seventy-two.”

“Indirectly?”

Most of his indirect kills had come from the Year of Blood. It had been a year of pain and agony, a year where he had performed one impossible task after another until he understood that impossibility does not apply to the al Ghuls. Damian had stolen precious artefacts and desecrated tombs, ruined families and communities, fought in the muck of war and started a revolution. He’d led strike teams and ordered assaults, coordinated League assets to incite violence and chaos across the globe.

Answering Father’s question is impossible.

“I do not know.”

Father’s fist clenches slowly, the material of his gloves squeaking uncomfortably. Damian is prepared for the blow.

“You will have access to no weapons. You will not enter this Cave without the accompaniment of myself or Dick. You will not harm any members of this Family.” Father leans forward. “And you _will not kill_. If you break that rule, the consequences will be dire. Am I understood?”

He waits a moment, giving Father space to strike Damian. When he does not, Damian answers.

“Understood.”

*

*

*

Damian takes to stalking his supposed new siblings around the house, lurking in shadows, and observing them. No matter the place, there are always power dynamics in place. After a few days, Damian learns a few more hidden rules:

  1. The Butler rules the Manor with Father’s authority.
  2. Grayson’s authority as heir is constantly undermined by Todd and Drake.
  3. Father is impossible to sneak up on.
  4. Avoiding dinner is not permitted.



Dinnertime meals are a minefield. Every time Damian opens his mouth, he seems to anger Father and the others. How is he to know that calling Drake the household’s weak link would be met with disdain? Why is suggesting automated turrets as part of the manor’s security frowned upon? And why is reminding everyone that he is the only blood son and heir an insult?

“Yeah, no, I’m done,” Drake says, standing from the table, food hardly eaten. “Sorry, Alfred, I tend to lose my appetite around a deranged homunculus.”

That ears him a terrible glare from Father as Grayson chases after Drake.

Father is implacably cold and disdainful to Damian who learns soon enough that meeting his gaze is seen as a confrontation and looking away will get him questioned. He resorts, when he can’t entirely avoid Father, to stand still and look above his shoulder. It seems a reasonable compromise.

The few conversations they have last no longer than a few seconds and are usually reprimands or amendments to the rules. Damian is grateful that Father is permitting such an extended adjustment period. Perhaps Mother has informed him of Damian’s many deficiencies?

To Grayson and Drake, he is a wellspring of affection. What did Drake do to earn Father carrying him to bed after crashing on the floor in the den? What feat did Grayson perform to have Father hold his shoulder warmly and over something resembling the idea of a smile?

Today, Todd has returned to the Manor. He enters limping, a badly bandaged wound on his arm, waving off any attempts at care and demanding pancakes from the butler. Pancakes that he takes with him to the library. Damian follows in the shadows, taking up a spot between a shelf and a corner, hidden by a geographic globe.

“You gonna hide up there all day.”

“Will you continue to sully our lineage and drip all over the Manor?”

“Touché brat. Come on, I got extra for you.”

The pancakes are glorious and Damian determines that the Butler may just be the most valuable member of the household after Father.

“You are not my brother.”

“Where the fuck is that coming from, you little shit?”

Damian steals another pancake. “We do not share blood. You are not my true brother.”

“Blood doesn’t mean everything you brat. You think that shit will change anything?”

Damian narrows his eyes. “It means you cannot be Heir.”

“Why?”

“Because you cannot carry the bloodline into the future. You cannot be a vessel.”

Todd frowns, tilting his head. “I don’t ever fucking want kids. And fuck that Bat mantle. Grayson can have that shit if he and Bruce ever stop fighting.”

“So, it is not blood that binds you but the mantle of the Bat.”

“Unfortunately.”

Damian nods. A mystical connection then. Perhaps it is strong enough if Mother created Todd through such a connection.

“Why do you not stay at the Manor?”

“Because there’s only so much of Bruce I can see without wanting to strangle him.”

“Lazarus?”

“Nope. Just an angry child soldier who comes back to life and finds out his commanding officer showed mercy to his killer.”

“You consider it a betrayal.”

“Yup.”

“Grandfather would have killed anyone who ended a useful asset.”

“Pretty fucked when Ra’s al Ghul is in the right.”

*

*

*

He misses his sword. It was a gift from Mother, and it was _not necessary_ , not a thing that he needed. It was a childish whim, a desire for a katana as opposed to the straight-edged League swords. Something he’d jokingly mentioned, and that Mother had taken seriously. He’d thanked her by christening it in the Year of Blood and slaughtering the enemies of the al Ghul.

It is foolish to sneak into the Cave when there is no one and unlock the vault keeping his sword, but he needs it, needs to keep up his forms if he is to be useful to Father.

The moment he touches the blade, a strong hand lands on his shoulder. There is strength To Father’s hand, strength enough to crush Damian’s shoulder.

“Were my instructions not explicit?” Batman asks lowly, the bass of his voice shaking in Damian’s bones.

Damian closes his eyes, glad that Father cannot see his fear. “They were.”

“Then explain yourself.”

“I have no explanation to offer. I willingly chose to disobey your orders.”

The hand tightens, just on the edge of pain. “I do not trust you. You are nothing but your Mother’s creation. If I must lock you up in Arkham to stop you hurting anyone then I’ll do so.”

“I wasn’t going to hurt anyone. This body requires practice to engrain muscle memory for—”

“Do not make excuses. You’ve crossed me once. Not again. Go to your room and stay there till you’ve learnt your lesson,” Batman growls out. “I watch every move you make. Nothing you do is a secret. Are we understood?”

Damian stiffens, letting his hand drop. “Yes, Father.”

He awaits his punishment in the room, wondering how it will come. Will it be food deprivation? Perhaps a hidden assault or an airborne poison. But as one day passes into the next, he is simply more confused. The attached bathroom means he is not forced to sit in his own waste and the water from the faucet is not poisoned. He doesn’t dare turn on the television nor attempt anything that could be construed as entertainment. Father is watching, always watching. He exercises instead, hoping that if Father is watching he will see that Damian can be put to use. When his body is exhausted, he meditates, sorting through the endless memories, attaching the less useful ones to more important memories to form an interconnected web that reinforces itself. 

“You moping there for a reason?”

Slowly, far too slowly, Damian rouses himself from meditation. Standing in the door frame, lit by the yellow lights of the hallway, Todd looks almost sickly, if not for the burning green of his eyes. _Even Grandfather’s don’t glow like that_.

“You’ve returned.”

“Alfred promised me chocolate cake for dessert if I picked up a few things for him. Can’t say not to that. What’s got you looking so gloomy?”

“Father has ordered that I remain here.”

“Why?”

“I undermined his authority and disobeyed his orders.”

Todd blinks. “Okay, but everyone does that.”

“I am Heir and held to a higher standard.”

“You of all people? Disobeying some shit an asshole said? What’s he done now?”

“Grandfather would have found a use for this body by now. Father does… there is no training, no direction, no anything. I exist as a ghost he pretends does not exist, wasting my potential. I wished to train but I… he has been merciful so far and not punished me severely for my transgression.”

“How long have you been in here?”

“Four days.”

“I’ve been gone for four days.” Todd’s eyes blaze a violent green. “Come with me now.”

“No. Father has ordered I stay.”

“Brat, I will drag you out if you don’t come with me now.”

“I will kick you in the crotch.”

Todd pauses, considering. Then shakes his head and stalks out the room, tension in every step. The fool is going to get himself killed but that’s fine, Todd has proven he can deal with the effects of the Lazarus Pits rather well.

“Hey B, you piece of shit!”

He hears the sounds of a fight, Todd screaming and Father’s sharp growl. Something crashes and then Pennyworth’s voice has been raised. Grayson’s conciliatory tones. A body hitting the wall. More shouting. Silence.

Damian readies himself for whatever must come, but there is only quiet for the next hour. He imagines that Father is dealing with Todd’s corpse.

Then, footsteps. They’re deceptively light footsteps because Father is a large man and his bulk fills the doorway. There is a bruise blooming on Father’s jaw. Damian feels his heart stop because Todd is definitely dead. Talking back is bad enough, but to strike at the Bat? The one whom even the Demon respects. That’s suicide. Unfortunate since Damian did not entirely dislike Todd.

“Can I come in?”

It’s a test. The worst kind. To say no is to defy Father’s intent. To say yes is to imply Father has no right to move as he pleases in his own territory. It is a question that will lead to pain. The only true nuance is which answer will lead to less pain.

He must hesitate a moment too long because Father crosses the threshold anyway. Damian carefully does not flinch.

“I thought you were avoiding me after our discussion,” Father says slowly, strained.

“I am not a coward.”

“No, you aren’t. Damian, I think we need to lay some ground rules.”

Finally, some semblance of order. Now, at least, Damian will know what will lead to pain. “Yes.”

“When I send you to your room, it doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to eat or leave it. Do you understand?” Damian opens to respond with an affirmative. “The truth, not what you think I want to hear.”

“I do not. You sent me here till I had learnt my lesson. I do not know what lesson you intended to teach.”

Something like frustration crosses Father’s face. “I was angry at you.”

Obviously. Why else would the Bat raise his voice? “I had failed your expectations and disobeyed your rules.”

“Not everything I say is an order.”

Damian nods, understanding that. Mother rarely gave orders, preferring subtler means to get her ways. It was still expected that he obey her, but that gave some room for interpretation. It also gave room for more painful punishments. As heir, Damian had been expected to navigate that uncertainty. It is an honour that Father is acknowledging him like that.

“If you’re confused, I hope that you will ask me.” _Do not disturb Batman with trivialities_. “I’m never going to withhold food from you. Eat as much as you want.” _Father will not, personally, but the others will_. “And you’re allowed to leave the Manor so long as you let me know.” _Request permission and leave only for necessary missions_.

“Do you understand?”

Damian nods again. Now, to salvage the Todd situation. There is room in Batman’s orders to ask questions. Todd is not trivial.

“Will Todd be permitted to remain?”

There. An open-ended question. Father may interpret it as he pleases.

“In the Manor?” Damian does not respond. “Yes, as long as he wants. Why?”

“He struck you.”

“I would have preferred he didn’t resort to physical violence, but I understand his reasons.”

“You communicate with physical blows.”

“On occasion.”

A strange secret language. Damian doesn’t understand how anyone shy of the One Who is All could do so, but then again, Father is the Bat. The understanding of mortals does not apply to him.

“Then Todd is still of use to you?”

Father nods uncertainly. “Always.”

Oh, that explains everything then. Todd holds a place in Father’s heart that cannot be usurped. His use as an asset—though Damian isn’t sure what exactly that use is—is far too valuable for Father to risk even in the throes of anger. Perhaps Father is drawing upon the Lazarus waters in Todd’s blood to strengthen himself through magics. Perhaps it is the fact that Todd challenges Father at every turn and Father enjoys the challenge.

Too many options and Damian is certain he has asked more questions than permitted.

“Will you be joining us for dinner tonight?”

Damian would prefer not to since he somehow always causes problems even when he is silent. Still, Father cannot be disobeyed, and he joins the family for dinner that evening. Grayson has a small bruise beneath his left eye, Pennyworth looks ancient, and Father is silently brooding. Drake is in deep slumber at the table, a blanket draped over his shoulders.

Todd is entirely undaunted, making snide remarks to both Father and Grayson.

“So, B, should I be calling CPP services on you next time you steal another kid? May as well save us time.”

Father closes his eyes. “Jason.”

“That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.”

“Do we have to do this?”

“Yup. Can’t leave you alone for more than a day before you mess something up.”

“I should have stayed in Bludhaven,” Grayson mutters.

“Probably. Anyway, I’m going to take the brat out for patrol.”

Father sets his fork down. “No.”

“Got a good reason to say no?”

Damian would never have dared challenge Father like that, but Todd is different. His very role is to challenge the Bat.

“If you think I shouldn’t, then maybe you or Dickbird should. Look, you don’t even have to put in any effort training this child soldier.”

“He’s a danger—”

“Shit, it ain’t like I’m not and you don’t tell me what to do.”

“You’re an adult.”

“Didn’t matter when you were showing us how to break people in half as children.”

The fool is going to get himself a beating if he doesn’t shut up.

“Todd, enough.” Damian sighs because he understands the name of the game, that he will never be acceptable to Father. That the fault lay with him, not in his training, but in Damian as a vessel. “Enough.”

He is here to be trained— _Father won’t even do that_ —and returned to the al Ghul’s with as a stronger and more skilled vessel. If he cannot be trained, then what purpose does he serve?

Todd slams his hands on the table, rattling the silverware. “Take the kid out or I’ll steal him myself,” he growls. “You don’t get to blame him for shit he had no control over. Be better. You get to react to the choices he makes going forward, not the shit in the past.”

Somehow, Drake sleeps through this. Damian wishes he possessed that power.

*

*

*

Patrolling with Father is an experience in frustration and taking insults without reaction.

It begins with his costume. He is not Robin, that title belongs to Drake, belongs more to Todd who battles Father, and even to Grayson who discarded it years ago. Every son but Damian has touched that mantle.

His costume is simple in its greys and blacks, the only hints of colour being Todd’s Robin red lining his hood, and the hint of green on his belt. He is not Robin no matter that he wishes to be and prove his worth to Father, but that is fine, the others were chosen whilst Damian was forced upon him.

And yet, for all that this is a compromise, that he is nameless and unchosen and without honour in Father’s eyes, it is still that first sign that he can be worthy of name Wayne. For that reason alone, Damian knows that he will kill and die for Todd because no one else has ever fought for him. It is a secret he will hold tight to his chest and carry to his grave.

“Don’t use that level of force,” Father will snap when all Damian has done is break a wrist and stopped a thug from using their pistol.

He doesn’t understand why his way is so wrong. Father breaks his enemies as well. Why is crippling a man because you kick him out of a building so noble but intentionally breaking bones is not? Objectively, one is far worse. Perhaps this is the strangeness Mother spoke of.

“Move faster,” Father will growl as they stalk the rooftops.

“Don’t get distracted.”

“Use that strike again and you won’t ever patrol again.”

“I did not bring you here to think.”

Day after day, failure after failure, disappointment after disappointment. Damian loses his appetite quickly and avoids meals where possible, citing a _superior ability to extract energy from food sources_ when the servant asks about his portion sizes. His hands shake with exhaustion, but he hides it. The one times Father saw, he cut their training for that day short.

“We’re done for the day.”

“I can still fight. I am an al Ghul. My strength and skills are unmatched.”

Father’s eyes pinch shut, a muscle along his jaw quivering with anger. “Go rest. You are not needed for today.”

Damian nods stiffly and walks away in shame. He does not cry but he does spend a minute longer in the shower and wanders the halls of the manor aimlessly. He encounters Drake who ignores him entirely. Damian wants to rage at the impostor who brings nothing of value but is somehow still useful to Father, who makes Grayson and Father smile just by existing.

Then, he goes out with Grayson and experiences his first good patrol. Father is dealing with Justice League business and Grayson is in charge.

Grayson is patient with him, willing to teach and explain things. He does so in a calming voice and when he gives an order, Damian rushes to obey not because Grayson is a good commander but because he is the same, in costume and out of it.

“This isn’t a race. I’m supposed to match you, not the other way around.”

“It’s not always super busy. Sometimes, it’s good to stop and take in the sights.”

“The best-case scenario is to scare petty crooks away without violence. If you have to use violence, always look to incapacitate and handcuff them. No need to cripple when you’ve already won.”

“What do you think of this crime scene? Is there anything you find strange?”

Grayson never gets angry even though Damian’s first, second, and third instinct is always to use a killing blow. His fourth is to maim, his fifth to cripple, and his sixth to incapacitate. He battles these instincts as he battles his enemies, a lethal palm strike becoming a harmless grab into a debilitating knee to the head. His knife swings just shy of arteries, slicing through holsters and straps to disarm his opponents.

“You did a good job tonight,” Grayson says with an easy smile.

Damian believes him despite his distrust. “There was nothing of note to this patrol.”

“There was you.”

“I did nothing special.” 

“I think you did.”

Grayson tries ruffling his hair, but Damian skitters back, hand on his blade, watching Father’s first son warily.

“Sorry. I’ll ask next time.”

Another thing that separates Grayson and Father. He is Father’s property now and Father would never give warning before laying hands on Damian.

“You like that?” Grayson asks one evening whilst they’re on patrol. It is an easy one in a boring part of the city which Damian takes to mean Father either distrusts his competency or doubts his willingness to contort his bones into the shape of Batman’s Heir.

Grayson is pointing at the wall mural Damian has been watching, a brilliant canvas of burnt orange and neon purple, ambiguous shapes that could be people but could also be birds or nothing at all. Gang tags and random squiggles have been added above it, clashing beautifully with the original.

“The colours are noticeable against the darkness,” he offers blandly.

“I’m going to ruffle your hair.” Damian permits it because if he doesn’t, Grayson will be morose for the rest of the evening. “Maybe you should take up drawing as a hobby then.”

“I am an impeccable artist.”

“Are you now?”

Breakfast is a silent affair. Todd isn’t here to cause chaos, Father is engrossed in a newspaper, and Drake is asleep under the table. The moment Damian has finished his breakfast, Grayson grins brilliantly.

“B, I’m stealing Damian. No arguments from you.”

“Don’t crash my cars and have him back by evening.”

“Love you, bye!”

Father does not look up from his morning coffee as Grayson pulls Damian by the wrist. Given the maddening and insufferable energy that Grayson brings to every occasion, Damian is jealous Father has gained some level of immunity. But, they have permission and Grayson is beloved by Father. There likely will be no punishment if they return on time.

American shopping complexes are still strange. Mother made certain that Damian was acquainted with the strangeness of this western world—pedestrian traffic lights had been a source of confusion—he is not prepared for the sheer volume of people that he is exposed to. Even his kills in London and India had been conducted under stealth with no one to see him.

They enter an art store. It is a large one, but not the most expansive one Damian has seen. That honour belongs to the one he found in a hidden corner of Istanbul, dingy and dark and packed to the brim with the strangest of supplies, all carefully curated by a woman who breathed her craft and spoke to Damian for hours on different markers, felt pen, and ink brushes. She didn’t care that Damian did not buy anything, only that he was interested, and even permitted him to reveal a hint of his budding talent.

That moment was peaceful, entirely unlike the one now. Grayson gestures at the expanse of the art store. “Grab some stuff.”

Damian selects a simple sketchbook and some pencils. Grayson frowns. “Nope, that won’t do. We’re getting more. Hey, this sketchbook over here is good for charcoal. You know how to use that? Wait, why am I asking. We’re getting. Go find some charcoal… do they come in pencils or is it, like, you know, chunks of charcoal. Should we grab some ink stuff or—”

That is the sheer chaotic energy that everyone has given up on fighting against. Damian simply follows in Grayson’s wake, selecting a few items from the massive collection Grayson has found— _does he have superspeed?_ —and refusing to smile.

Afterwards, Grayson drives him to the edge of town to a small ice-cream parlour. It is on the boardwalk and is quiet. The owner greets Grayson fondly and inquires after Damian politely.

Grayson has a moment where he freezes up, realising that he can’t introduce Damian as a brother. Damian is hidden from the world, an unwanted thing that Father must fix.

The moment passes. “This is Damian.” He offers nothing more.

“What will it be, Mister Damian?”

Damian stares at the bewildering array of flavours. Then darts his gaze to Grayson, praying for an answer.

“Never had ice-cream before? ToGo on, pick whatever you want.”

“Of course, I’ve had ice-cream before.”

He hasn’t, but Grayson doesn’t know. He selects green tea which has Grayson bemoaning Damian’s poor upbringing because—

“Everyone knows chocolate mint is the best and I’m buying you chocolate mint on your birthday. Can’t believe you got green tea of all things and wait, don’t get upset, if you like it, that’s fine, you just need to accept that you’re allowed to have bad taste and—

“What is our purpose here?” Damian interrupts from his spot on the bench.

“Having fun.”

“Our patrol last night was uneventful.”

“Having fun has no bearing on our patrols,” Grayson says carefully, holding Damian’s gaze.

“Fun serves no purpose.”

“Sure it does. I get to spend time with you.”

“Why?”

“Maybe I want to know about you.”

“You have access to my file.”

“Sure, but that file doesn’t tell me Damian likes art or has an unfortunate inclination to green tea ice-cream. It doesn’t tell me you scrunch up your nose like a cat—”

“—I don’t—”

“—when you’re confused or that you can name every dog breed in the world.”

“Not every breed.”

That only makes Grayson smile brighter. It feels like the sun just rose but that’s physically impossible. It’s right there, dipping past the horizon.

(Later, Damian will understand this was the first moment in the journey to his own death. When he is bleeding out, he will remember Grayson’s smile, and he will know dying is worth it because the world still has that smile and nothing can replace it.)

“Why did Father allow me to fight?” he asks.

Grayson is Heir as well until Damian takes his place, and perhaps he will punish Damian for not understanding on his own, but he will be compelled to answer as is his role. It is what Damian did for the Demon’s Fist, breaking them for their weaknesses and rebuilding them stronger than ever. Distantly, he wonders if Mara has taken them and what she will mould them into, whether she will understand that they were always more loyal to each other that Grandfather, and bind their loyalty to her. That is part of what being Heir means, to take any asset and make them of use to Grandfather— _Father, now_ , he reminds himself.

A tiny part of him as well hopes that Grayson will answer because he _cares_.

“You saying you weren’t bored out of your mind?”

He was, but Damian won’t reveal such a weakness. “I am not a child in constant need of entertainment.”

For some reason, that makes Grayson sad. “No, I suppose you aren’t a child.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Jay tore B a new one. He really likes you, not that I told you that. And he was right about the way we were treating you. It was wrong even if B won’t say anything about it.”

“Father has said more than enough.”

“B actually spoke and used words. What did he tell you?”

“He laid out his expectations for me.”

“Which were?” Grayson asks slowly.

Damian tells him, confused as Grayson’s expression falls further as he lists the rules and orders he is expected to follow. Maybe he’s made a mistake. Maybe he wasn’t meant to bother Grayson with trivialities as well.

“I _am_ loyal to Father,” he adds, worried. “I will not fail him. No matter the role Father gives me in this war, no matter how inconsequential, I will not fail him.”

“And if he asked you to die?” Grayson asks with terrible disquiet.

“Then this life will have served its purpose. This body can be repurposed.”

“You really believe that.”

“I was born to fulfil a purpose and I will not fall. Failure is beneath an al Ghul.”

There is something unbearably tender in his gaze. “I’m going to give you a hug.”

Damian blinks, backing away. “Don’t touch me.”

Grayson hugs him anyway. He will never admit it, but he feels safe in Grayson’s arms.

“You don’t have to be anyone else but you.”

Obviously. He’s Heir and Vessel and not Hafidh, never Hafidh, but a good and loyal soldier who will succeed Father’s expectations. When his training with Father is complete, he will be returned to Grandfather to fulfil his purpose as a Vessel.

Hopefully, Grayson will hug him again before he leaves. It is a strange thing, but he believes he will miss it when he is no longer Damian but instead whatever Grandfather makes of him.

*

*

*

“Grayson, Drake is blocking the hallway.”

A flicker of sorrow crosses Grayson’s features. “Not again,” he mutters and leaves the breakfast nook where he had been reading over case files.

Damian follows him to the hallway in question where Drake is curled up. He lacks any wounds and is still alive.

Grayson shakes his shoulders gently. “Hey Tim, how’s about we get you to your bed? That sounds good, right.”

“Floor’s comfy.”

Grayson lifts him easily. “Sure it is, bud. Now let’s get you to bed.”

“Is he defective?”

“No.”

“If he is defective, he should be recycled.”

Grayson’s smile becomes just the slightest bit strained. “We don’t work like that in this household.”

“I will institute it as a policy change when I have supplanted you as Heir.”

“Well, until then, I guess that means you just have to listen to me, right?”

“That is correct.”

“Then you’ll just have to trust me that he’s not defective. He’s… a bit useless at keeping himself healthy. This is probably a day three crash. And if you want proof he isn’t defective, why don’t you watch over him for me?” Grayson asks with a wink.

It is the politest order Damian has been given and something bright and warm blooms in Damian’s heart. Grayson is Father’s heir, and that he does not hate Damian for stealing his place makes him a better man than Damian thought possible. Unless this is a ploy to get Damian and Drake to kill each other.

“Where will you be?”

“Just some things I need to deal with. I’m trusting you to take care of him, Lil D.”

“Call me that again and I will tear your tongue out. Why must you leave?”

“Just some business in Bludhaven. Didn't used to stay here so much so things are a bit of a mess back there.”

“Why do you stay here then?”

The fool ruffles his hair. “Pretty obvious reasons, I think. Thanks for agreeing to take care of Tim. You’re a good kid.”

Hacking Drake’s computer is not easy and takes a few hours. Everything about his file management system is a mess, but Damian is good with finding patterns, linking the hidden connections between Drake’s digital files and the small scar under his chin that he rubs when he is exhausted with the way his hands trace a clockface from midnight to noon but never further and the way he derides Luthor Corp’s latest digital security packages. There are benefits to perfect memory and they help him find Drake’s hit lists, both the obvious one and the hidden one.

If possible, Damian comes to hate the impostor even more.

Drake awakens slowly and Damian shoves a coffee thermos in his face. The impostor gulps the scalding liquid down without a word, making very strange sounds the entire time.

The difference between Drake without coffee and Drake after coffee is startling. Where before he was nothing but a fool, now that is a sharp intelligence and ruthless cunning to his eyes.

“Really? You? Why are you here?”

“Grayson tasked me with monitoring your health.”

“Nope, get the hell out.”

When Damian does not, drake throws up his hands—the coffee thermos going flying—and leaves in a rush.

“Oh my God, stop following me.”

“Blame Grayson. It was his insipid request that forced me here. Do you think I want to be here, attending to a treasonous traitor like you?”

“I thought we had something good going on. You ignore me, I avoid you, and no one gets hurt. Pretty simple. Why are you destroying the equilibrium?”

“Blame Grayson. Must I say it multiple times for your tiny brain to internalise the concept?”

Drake whirls on the spot, a hint of mania to him. “Fine, let’s see how you like it.”

“Drake, don’t.”

“Why? You spent all night in my room doing who knows what. Turnabout is only fair play.”

Damian’s room is neat and perfectly organised, not that he has much to organise. Outside of a few identical pairs of black shirts and pants, he has little in the way of clothing, less still in equipment as Father has that all locked in the Cave. For all the wealth and opulence the Waynes possess, Damian’s room is more barren than the one of his childhood.

His only possession is the sketchbook out in the open. He inhales sharply, knowing that Drake will have seen it.

“I didn’t know you sketched.”

“Leave it alone, Drake.”

“Nope.”

“Don’t,” Damian snaps.

It is _his_ sketchbook that Grayson gifted him. Every drawing in there is made from pencils Grayson bought and the case of coloured pencils Father bought unexpectedly. The first sketch in there is of Todd who sat still without being asked and smiled at Damian when it was done. That sketchbook is everything that he never knew he loved, wrapped up in a tiny package. For Drake to touch it, to sully it, is to sully the nobility of the lineage he pretends to be worthy of. 

Damian’s hate comes thick and hot, choking him in its intensity because he _is_ going to hurt Drake. There can be no mercy after this injustice. As Heir, he must punish slights to his household and dispense appropriate punishment to those who fail. Breaking each finger in Drake’s hand should be adequate, and Damian can hear the painful crack of his own fingers broken during his months of pain training; his sharp exhale as he kept from screaming, the cold pit in his heart from not seeing Mother, the agonising relief when it was over and she treated him to baklava in the night, hidden from the world.

It will be nothing less than what Drake deserves.

But Drake is of value to Father and adored by Grayson. They look at this vile pretender with the same look his mother gave him in their quieter moments, memories of taking a few hours longer on a mission to visit a beach or silently ascending Kilimanjaro for the thrill of it. She would not mourn Damian’s death, he knows, but only because she can prepare another vessel from her clones. Father does not have the same capability with Drake.

“Get out,” he orders curtly, lacing it with every inch of authority his position grants him.

“These are good,” Drake says absently.

Damian loses it and there’s a knife flying before he can register the action. It misses—except Damian never misses—and skims Drake’s cheek.

“I said get out, Pretender!”

And when he hesitates, Damian knows someone will die if he doesn’t leave the room immediately. There’s a window and he leaps out, running on sheer rage, not caring where he winds up.

He winds his way past the manor grounds and finds the very worst parts of Gotham. He fights and he fights and he bleeds and breaks bones and maims and paints the streets red with maimed bodies until it reflects the red clouding his vision.

His hands are stained red and one of his knuckles feels broken, but he can finally breathe, can finally see and realise that Todd is sitting on a fire escape.

“Wanna tell me why you’re acting out,” Todd asks casually.

“No.”

“Well, you’re causing shit in my side of the city. No birds over here.”

Damian swallows. “I am not Robin.”

Todd looks him up and down, assessing the distinct lack of Robin’s R and the muted colours. “I guess not. Good job on that. B doesn’t need anymore Robins to get killed.”

“I will not perish, you imbecile. Death is for lesser mortals.”

“Great you little shit. He isn’t worth dying for.” Todd stands and drops down. “Either way, your daddy’s been screaming in my ear for the last ten minutes.”

“I will return.”

“You don’t have to. My place ain’t that nice, but there’s a couch and I even have food.”

Damian’s scowl intensifies. “Are none of you capable of looking after yourselves?”

“You’re talking to the head of the Dead Robin Club. Haven’t even figured out the rules.”

“If Drake does not stop antagonising me, you’ll have another member for your club.”

“Do I need to beat the shit out of Drake?”

“I am capable of handling myself.”

“Doesn’t mean you should.”

“I’ll be fine, Todd. He hates me and I loathe him. Things are in equilibrium.”

“Whatever. Imma go shout at B for a bit. If I don’t, he’ll probably say some stupid shit to you.” Todd sighs. “Can’t fucking believe I’m the emotionally mature one here.”

At this point, he isn’t surprised by Todd’s foolishness. He sticks to side streets and shadows as he returns home. This may be Gotham, but a kid covered in blood doesn’t get ignored. He jogs the rest of the way back once he hits the hills, exercising off his remaining nervous energy. Father is undoubtedly waiting for him in the study. There, he finds him seated calmly behind his imposing desk, Drake leaning against a shelf to the side.

Damian comes to stand at parade rest, looking over his Father’s shoulder. It is the safest place to look.

“Damian.”

“Father.”

“Explain.”

Good. A simple order. One he can answer in his favour.

“I requested that he not touch the sketchbook. When he did not, I allowed my emotions to compromise me.”

Father knows he is guilty. Choosing not to admit to it is foolish. Best to control the narrative and hope for the best. Throwing Drake under the bus might not be a great option but it’s the best he has.

“In what way?”

“Irrational anger. I was unable to think clearly.”

“And yet you were still coherent enough to escape the manor and evade the security systems.”

“You would not wish me to harm Drake,” he admits, ashamed that Father forces him to reveal the depths of his emotional compromise.

“You would have tried,” Drake mutters, reminding Damian that he is not alone as he is to be shamed for his failings.

Father’s eyes snap to Drake, who closes his mouth with a click. “Of the five you fought, three are in the ICU. I need to understand why this inspired such a violent reaction in you.”

This, Damian understands. To know his pressure points is to give Father additional leverage over Damian. Both Grandfather and Mother knew his, attacked them relentlessly during training. If Father wishes to know, it means he does intend on training Damian.

“I was raised to be Mother’s blade and she gifted me a sword. Mother gave me sweets as well. You raise me now to be a soldier and gift me a role in your war. You give me colours as well.”

It is childish and so, so terrifying to admit this weakness. That he is the way he is because of useless affections. But he also knows Father will unearth it regardless. Better Father process the shock of Damian’s many failings now so that he may begin the process of removing them.

Drake inhales sharply. Damian does not look at him, focused instead on Father as he works through some complicated bundle of emotions. Damian hopes he hasn’t broken more rules with his admissions.

“That sketchbook was _mine_ and I no longer had control of it,” he adds further, worried by Father’s mounting emotion. “It is all I have. It is no excuse. My reaction was unbecoming of your Heir.”

“Why?” Drake asks out of turn. “What does the heir thing mean and have to do with your reaction?”

Damian keeps his gaze on Father, waiting until he inclines his head slightly.

“I am unable to kill the emotions within me. It is my failing and taints this body. The Bat has never been compromised by emotion. Both Mother and Grandfather recognised it and so I was sent here to learn from you. If I am to be Heir to you, I must excise that weakness from my marrow. It is my purpose here and why Father accepted me.”

Drake’s glare is sharp and pointed at Father. “Is that true?”

“Yes,” Damian says, just as Father says, “No.”

Damian pales. Not only has he spoken out of turn, but he has also directly contradicted Father. The one and only time he had done so to Ra’s, he’d been lashed fifty times and dropped in a cave system, and told to return or die. Father might be more… indulgent of disrespect from the others, but Damian is yet worthy of the Wayne name.

Damian kneels immediately, head bowed, breathing carefully to stop his fingers from trembling. “Apologies, Father. I was unaware of the arrangement you came to regarding this body. I did not mean any disrespect.”

“Jesus, Bruce.”

“Not now, Tim. Damian, stand up.” He rises immediately, head bowed. “No one kneels in this household.”

Damian swallows. Of course, he’s managed to make a mess of even a basic apology. He stays silent, the quiet becoming more oppressive.

“Look at me.”

He does so, hating that he must meet the harsh blue of Father’s eyes. They tear Damian to shreds, uncovering his every failing.

“I cannot ignore that you went out to start a fight.” Damian never expected that. “But, your space was violated and you attempted to reconcile it peacefully at first.” His features soften just slightly. “And if I don’t try to be equitable, Jay may punch me again. You two will need to learn to work together. Alfred requires help in the gardens. You will both join him.”

“Oh, come on—”

“—Understood.”

Damian finds he likes gardening. Farming, really. Pennyworth sets out clearly defined expectations and the work isn’t very hard. The sun is warm and the breeze pleasant. It is a strange sort of punishment but Father is also a strange person. Nothing he does makes any sense.

“I’m sorry,” Drake says, handing Damian a shovel.

“You’ve said so already. Repeating yourself is useless.”

“I mean it.”

“Apologies only exist because we were caught in our mistakes. You believed you could touch my possessions despite that I am Heir, and you are not. You apologise only because Father has punished us.”

“That’s not true.”

“I do not expect you to like me, Drake. I do not even expect you to treat me with anything less than disdain. But you will respect my property, or I will eliminate you.”

“I’m not your enemy.”

Damian scoffs. “You, more than anyone else, would fit amongst the League. The fact that you placed me on your hit list is proof enough.”

He savours the way Drake’s eyes widen. “That’s not—”

“Silence yourself, cretin. There is work to be done.”

*

*

*

Father returns his sword the next morning.

“I do not understand.”

“It was a gift, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Don't hurt anyone with it and you can keep it.”

Pennyworth enters then, pausing at the sight of the katana. “Master Bruce, I barred you from getting a katana for this very reason. Master Damian, there are to be no swords of any make on at either the breakfast or dining table.”

Father grunts as Damian places the sheathed blade across his lap and eats breakfast silently with Father. He trains with the katana only in the Cave where Father can watch him remotely, refusing to give the impression that he has anything to hide. Usually just before noon so he can prowl the Manor grounds as part of his cooldown.

He turns a corner and realises he’s made a terrible terrible mistake and he’s going to die and there’s little he can do about this because even though he’s the Demon’s Heir and the son of the Bat, there is no way in hell he can survive against Cassandra fucking—

“Cain.”

The One Who is All, a goddess of death trapped in human form by the League. The one who left the League, who subverted all who were sent against her, and defeated Lady Shiva herself. 

She scowls and Damian feels his future end here, in this tiny hallway. “Wayne.”

 _I can’t win_ , he knows, because if Cain could defeat Mother as a child then Damian stands no chance. Maybe not even Father would win. And he’s just pissed her off.

He doesn’t hesitate to jump out the window, landing harshly on concrete, and scrambling up to his feet. He needs to escape and get off this damned continent because even the Demon couldn’t get a goddess to heel, and yet she strides through the hallways of Wayne Manor as if it is home and she’s going to kill any challenger to her status here.

It is what Damian would do if not for Father’s very explicit orders and his multitude of hidden rules.

He needs to find Grayson. Father won’t protect Damian from any threat as doing so defeats the purpose of an Heir, and Todd is too weak, and Drake would cheer on as Damian is murdered. For once in his life, Damian will trust in someone else’s kindness because even though they’ve only known each other a few months, Grayson’s kindness is as sure as the sun rising.

Grayson’s with Todd, the latter laughing at something. Good. Father finds value in Todd’s existence. He might stop Cain if Damian uses Todd as a body shield.

“The hell’s up with you, brat?”

He takes a breath, ignores Todd, and faces Grayson fully. “I require your assistance.”

“Um, sure, what’s up?”

“I need you to smuggle me out of the city.”

And then they’re both standing. “The fuck—”

“What’s going on?”

“Father intends on killing me.”

Grayson frowns. “B doesn’t kill people.”

“I am Heir,” he says, hating how his voice trembles, but knowing he is held to an entirely different standard than _people_. “She will kill me.”

Todd grabs Damian by the shoulder and tugs him over.

“You’re as much a person as the rest of us,” Todd says sharply. “Even if I have to beat that into B—”

“Jay—”

“Fuck off. Now, what’s going on?”

That is when Alfred knocks on the door though it is open. “Young masters, your sister has returned.”

Grayson perks up. The traitor.

“Cass is back?”

And then she is there, standing beside Alfred. “Hey.”

Grayson’s grin is blinding, and Damian feels his heart fall. He loves her as a sister which means he will side with her over Damian. A useless Heir or the One Who is All? It isn’t even a contest.

And yet, for all his obvious joy, Grayson doesn’t move from his spot, still standing in front of Damian. With Todd behind, holding onto his shoulder, Damian knows he can’t escape. Perhaps it will not be a cruel death.

“Welcome home, Cassandra.” She leans into Alfred, almost an embrace. “How was Hong Kong?”

“Head is clear.”

“Well, I certainly hope these miscreants don’t muck it up.”

“Hey, I did no wrong!” Grayson says, amusement and fondness lacing his every word.

Alfred nods once. “It certainly wasn’t you who decided to repaint your father’s study a pastel pink.”

“He wasn’t even using it. Now he is.”

“As you say. Now, why is Master Damian in such a state? Is that glass?”

“Closest I can tell he’s scared shitless of Cass,” Todd says, pulling Damian even closer, and picking out a shard of glass from Damian’s hair. “Even though she’s harmless.

“Harmless!?” Damian squeaks out, glad that he’s squished between Todd and Grayson.

“Well, maybe not harmless but she won’t hurt you.”

“She’s the One Who is All.”

Cain scowls slightly, making Damian flinch back. “Cassandra now. Wayne.”

“Lay off, Cass,” Todd growls.

Damian feels his heart rate spike because Todd is too weak to survive the One Who is All and he’s making himself a target. For all that he’s a fool, Damian does not wish his brother to die. He’s lost a sister already.

To his endless surprise, she simply huffs. “Fine. Sorry. Behave now.”

“You never behave,” Father Batman, almost seeming to snap into existence behind Cain. “Hello, Cassandra.”

Father… he smiles, and Damian’s brain breaks because Batman does not smile. The persona he uses to fool the simpering masses, yes, but not Batman. Damian has yet to see Grayson inspire such an emotion when Father wears the cowl.

_I’m dead._

“I take it this has something to do with why the third-floor window in the west wing is broken?”

Damian winces. “Yes, Father.”

“Why?” he asks in a voice far too like Batman for comfort.

Todd grips his shoulders tighter. “Hey, Bruce, you ever think that when your kid is scared shitless, you shouldn’t make things worse. For fuck’s sake, how’d you somehow get worse at parenting after you got one kid killed?”

“Language,” Pennyworth mutters without any intent behind it.

“I’ll stop swearing when he stops being a shitty parent.”

Grayson claps his hand once, and everyone falls silent. The simplest of actions, and yet the entire household falls in line.

“Okay, we’re going to stop fighting right now. Damian, no one in this household will ever raise a hand to you, and if they do, I'll break that hand. B and Cass, I think we should have a conversation. Jay, watch him.”

“Fuck you.”

And yet, Todd obeys. This authority and unquestioning loyalty are what Damian aspires towards. He stays with Todd as Pennyworth makes some tea.

“I should have stolen you from the League.”

“Grandfather would have killed you.”

“He would have tried.”

“And been successful. I don’t see why you would risk your life on such a futile gambit.”

Todd rests his chin on Damian’s head. “Fuck, ‘course you don’t see anything wrong.”

(He will understand one day why Todd would be willing to sacrifice himself for Damian. It is to do with blood and love and connection, and nothing at all to do with lineage or heir or vessel. This moment, of Todd willing to defy everyone who controls Damian, will be the memory of Todd that matters the most.)

His punishment is lenient on the surface. He simply has to clean up the glass and wood shards. Except, he has to do it with Cain— _Cassandra Wayne_ , _don’t push her mercy_ —which means it’s a lethal test. Of what, Damian isn’t certain, but there is no better to defeat him than the One Who is All.

“Sorry,” she says to him.

Damian skitters back, expecting an attack. There is none.

“Not going to hurt you.”

Damian says nothing. It was neither question nor order. If she wishes to ramble, Damian will allow her without interruption. Maybe she’ll get distracted and forget about this test.

“Not a test. Not the League.” Damian can’t figure out where exactly the threat is. “Come.”

Damian follows because disobeying the One Who is All is stupid. Even if he is terrified and wants to hide behind Grayson or even Pennyworth at this point. She takes him to a disused hall, empty but for the bank of mirrors on the long wall.

“Ask.”

“What are we doing?”

“Ballet.”

“I was not trained.”

Cassandra points at herself. “Teach you.”

“Oh.”

It is not altogether unpleasant. It becomes a new thing he does three days a week, before training with Father and classes. It is convenient because it serves as a warmup and helps his already excellent grace and mobility. Just as the hour each afternoon he spends gardening and preparing a plot for rows of tomatoes under Pennyworth’s war smile, it is peaceful.

He does still expect Drake to attempt to kill him each day, but the impostor avoids Damian expertly. Which is fine. The last two they were in the same hallway had turned into a vicious fight that required both Grayson and Todd to pull them apart.

But despite that, he’s coming to think that this might not be a punishment. That Father isn’t going to hurt him and neither will Cain. It makes no sense, but this household is senseless.

Damian stumbles during a twirl they’ve practised and they stumble down together, Cassandra catching him. For a moment, Damian thinks this is it, the moment that the punishment is to come.

Nothing happens.

Damian decides to push it, to see just how far the madness of this house extends. “Wayne is the name you chose.”

“Yes,” she says simply. “Not an assassin. Not Cain. Cassandra now.”

“I was told to become Damian the day I came here.”

“It fits you.”

Damian blinks and then his eyes burn. He’s never said it, never acknowledged it, but he has always fit himself into the mould set by other people. And now, he’s being told something _fits him_ instead.

He tucks his head into her shoulder, knowing it is futile to hide emotion from the One Who is All, but his embarrassment is strong.

“Better than your ballet outfit,” he says sharply, masking his weakness with offense. “You’re getting fat on Pennyworth’s food.”

He would be fine if she hurt him. Instead, Cassandra laughs, holding him tighter, and Damian burns with the fierce longing for a sister he lost the day he was born but has found now, in someone unrelated by blood.

“Fit better in my ballet outfit,” she says between laughs. “Fit myself better.”

Damian doesn’t know what else to do but stay there, enveloped in this strange act of comfort.

(He will look back on this moment and let it warm him just as the memories of Mother crawling into bed and feeding him dates stuffed with goat cheese no matter that he loathes goat cheese. _Everyone likes goat cheese_ , Mother will say, and feed him another. One day, he’ll eat it to remember her, loving and hating it just as much as he loved and hated her.)

*

*

*

There is a rhythm to his life now, a steadiness that he comes to cherish. Even before the Year of Blood, he’d travelled often for missions and training. Gotham, however, brands itself into his skin and bones. He comes to appreciate the docks and its towers, spends far too much time trying ice-cream at a dozen different stores at Grayson’s insistence, and follows Todd through Crime Alley regularly. Cassandra signs him up for a ballet course in the city and takes him there three times a morning, and he comes to hate how deeply he loves her for that. He does not love this putrid city, but he thinks the people who call themselves family make it less miserable.

Damian presents his first harvest of tomatoes to Pennyworth on a scorching hot afternoon.

“Excellent work, Master Damian. Why, might I say your true talent lay in working the Earth.”

He scowls. “I am no farmhand. I was raised for greater things.”

“There is pride to be had in growing something, young master. Nurturing life is not easy. You should be proud of yourself. I am. I know we all are.”

 _I don’t deserve you_. He doesn’t know who he means. Maybe Pennyworth. Maybe Grayson. Maybe everyone.

“Even Father?”

“Especially your father. He speaks highly of you.”

And though Damian knows Alfred is lying for his sake, he chooses to believe that lie if only for a moment.

That feeling lasts him until a mass breakout in Arkham coinciding with a gang war breaking out.

Father, Grayson and Cassandra will deal with Arkham whilst Todd deals with the gangs. Damian is stuck on the sidelines with Drake handling any spillover. It is insulting that not only will Father not trust his skills but that he will also force him to stand beside Drake.

“Keep each other safe,” Father orders.

Damian accepts the order easily. Drake is of some value to Father and it will be Damian’s duty to ensure he makes it through the night regardless so the cost. And Drake, brilliant and merciless Robin that he is, will understand that implicitly and engineer a situation to kill Damian.

Grayson nods. “B won’t say it, but everyone’s coming home.”

They work together in silence, attacking from stealth and providing reconnaissance to the others. It is boring and uninspired. Damian could be with Father battling real threats, but Father does not trust him and instead, he’s stuck with Drake.

The hours pass, the fighting in Arkham getting worse, the gangs turning the streets bloody. Damian’s encounters are short and efficient.

“Major activity in those buildings,” Drake says over the comm. “Looks like a resupply base for Falcone’s men.”

Todd grunts over the radio. “Y'all good to handle that shit because Black Mask is somewhere in here. I’ll be too distracted to help.”

“We’ll be fine.”

Sneaking in isn’t very difficult.

Damian’s earpiece buzzes sharply just as bright lights turn on, blinding him.

“We’ve been made,” Drake shouts, dragging Damian just as the first bullets are fired.

They can’t escape outside. The only option is to go deeper into the compound, fighting through assailant after assailant. They are a whirlwind of efficiency, no strike allowed to be anything less than perfect. It is brutal combat in narrow corridors and dark corners, always one step from death. Damian thrives in it. This is what he was made for.

He notices a gunman at the last moment, one smarter than the others who hides in the shadows. Poorly, yes, but there’s so much chaos all around them. It is too late to avoid the shot.

Then, he is shoved aside. He lands in a three-point crouch and flings a knife at the gunman, errantly recognising Drake on the ground, his costume turning a darker red than usual. Damian moves quickly, dispatching the others without mercy before approaching Drake.

He’s been hit badly. Gut shots are not immediately fatal. Debilitating, yes. Painful, terribly so. Eventually fatal, undoubtedly. But luck seems to follow Drake.

Damian’s assessment is favourable. The bullet hit him in the spleen and hopefully didn’t rupture the intestines. An operation can still save Drake. There is an opportunity to rectify his failure to protect Drake, an opportunity to not fail Father and be shipped home. Damian can still save himself if he saves Drake.

“You fool,” Damian snaps. “There was no reason to do that.”

“Couldn’t let you get hurt.”

“Idiot. You’ve compromised the mission and injured yourself. My corpse can be recovered and used.”

“Don’t wanna see your corpse,” Drake slurs. “You’re my brother.”

Damian inhales sharply, something strange tugging at his chest. He kills that feeling. _Focus_. _No more mistakes._

He stashes Drake in a disused room and scours the compound for what he needs, eliminating targets silently from the shadows. It causes chaos and disorganises their search routes as Damian finds everything he needs.

Some of the fights aren’t as quiet as he would like. He takes a crowbar to the chest from one man and lands badly enough to twist his ankle.

“You haven’t perished.”

“Damian, what?” Drake asks slowly, concussed.

He doesn’t answer, instead, focusing on getting Drake strapped into his makeshift contraption. A parachute, pressurised air canisters, and lots of jury-rigging have led to this abomination that will save Drake.

“This device can only sustain one person. Anyone else and you will crash. Your injuries are hardly stable enough to survive that.”

Drake forces a weak grin. “I’m tougher than I look.”

“Ah, so a defenceless slug becomes a defenceless snail. Such an improvement. Now stop wriggling.” He pulls the final belt tight around Drake’s chest, which makes the fool wince in agony. “You wouldn’t be in pain if you had chosen to not be a fool.”

“Where’s yours?” Drake asks slowly, battling through his pain.

Damian chooses not to answer. The footsteps are getting closer and closer.

“I’ve timed a set of flares that will go off each minute using the League code. Father will understand, and if not him, then Todd. They will be able to find you. I will hold them back.”

The door slams open. Damian reaches for his knife. The thug aims his gun. Drake is far faster.

A hand grips his wrist and then he’s being tugged back with Drake as they are propelled out the window.

They crash violently. It jostles his twisted ankle and broken ribs, leaves him in agonising pain. Not so much that he ignores the pained whine from Drake. He’s bleeding again, his face ashen and with a sheen of sweat.

“Fool, you blithe idiot. You’re going to kill yourself and me and—”

“Shh, Damian. We’ll make it.”

His eyes burn. “You’re going to bleed out.”

“You first,” the idiot says, pawing at Damian’s shoulder.

Only then does he notice the blood seeping through his uniform. “Damn.”

He applies pressure to Drake’s wound.

“Sorry about the list.”

“Apply pressure to your injury instead of talking.”

Drake is heavy. Tiny compared to the other members of the family, but Damian is twelve with a near-useless arm and an injured ankle. The way he drags a stumbling Drake is undignified but better than any other option.

“Wasn’t fair.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Damian mutters.

The static from his earpiece clears the further they walk.

“—you copy?” Father, sounding so frantic, so unlike the emotionless warrior.

“They went down there!”

Father won’t be here soon enough. Drake can’t move fast enough. Damian is injured. He should leave Drake to his fate. It is the logical thing to do. The ungrateful bastard ruined Damian’s perfect escape plan.

“Damn it all.”

Damian hides Drake as best he can and then strides forth, one boy against a tide of enemies. Outnumbered. Outgunned. But never outmatched.

He fights and fights and fights, getting weaker with each moment. A punch to the eye dazes him but Damian has suffered worse and retaliates with a knife through the man’s bicep. He elbows someone’s crotch and leaps over them as they lean forward, their back now a springboard for Damian to crash into a woman with a crowbar. They tussle for a moment before Damian punches her in the throat, steals the crowbar, and throws it at another thug.

“Found you.”

Damian barely hears that shout. He takes his attention away from his current foe and finds another thug near Drake’s hiding spot.

He sees a vision of Drake’s death, the funeral that will accompany it, Father’s punishment for failing such a basic order, and refuses that future. He knows what he must do to save Drake even if it must damn Damian.

His blade slices through the man’s throat.

Damian moves like lightning, grabbing the man and twisting around. He steals the man’s gun in the same motion and fires once, twice, thrice.

That is how Father finds them, Drake bleeding out amidst the corpses Damian has made.

*

*

*

The Cave’s silence is heavy.

Pennyworth, Father and Grayson operate on Drake whilst Damian watches from the darkness, forgotten. Cassandra is unconscious from a brutal head injury from Quinn’s mallet. Her injury was acceptable to take to the hospital for additional scans and Todd is with her.

He is broken and bleeding and in agony. Ribs bruised, a clean bullet wound in his shoulder that Pennyworth removed, a twisted ankle, and an eye swollen shut. He shows none of his pain when Father enters, Grayson close on his heels.

Damian tries to push himself up, but Pennyworth’s hand is on his shoulder. “No. Don’t aggravate your injuries.”

Damian swallows, shamed that he cannot stand in the presence of Father. But Pennyworth’s words are law and even the Bat relents to them.

“How many did you kill?” Father asks, wasting no time.

“Two confirmed dead,” Damian says, proud at how flat his voice lands. “Three with possibly lethal injuries.”

Father’s expression twists. Maybe rage, maybe hate.

Grayson lays a hand on Father’s shoulder. “B, not now.”

“No, now is the only time. Why?” Father asks, almost as if he is tired. The foes he fought must truly have been great to force him to reveal such weakness.

“You ordered that I protect Drake. I had already failed.” He snaps his eyes to Drake’s bed, the boy swaddled in bandages and silent but for the beep of his patient monitor. “I could not fail that order further.”

Father’s face twists further.

“The flares you used. That was a League code. Damian, do you… do you know what that code meant?”

Damian nods. “Death imminent, objective possible, east, and then distance. I had been willing to stand my ground to provide you with time to recover Drake.”

“We don’t work like that,” Grayson says deeply. “We don’t pick and choose who to save. Not when it comes to family. Do you understand?”

Damian says nothing, staring at Father. Grayson is Heir as well, yes, but Damian will not answer his question without permission.

Father inclines his head and so Damian looks to Grayson, grateful because Grayson never hides anything, his expressions free and open and always so kind.

“Yes, I understand the value you put on family.”

Grayson sighs in relief which only breaks Damian’s heart. Of all people, he’d hoped against hope that maybe Grayson could see him as part of the family one day, but no, his only purpose is as a sacrifice.

“This discussion can be concluded in the morning,” Pennyworth says.

He nods, grateful that he will have at least a few hours to pack his belongings and prepare for his journey home.

When dawn breaks, Damian is ready for his sentencing.

Damian kneels, dressed in the blacks and greys of the League, his armour tight around his shoulders. It is strange to realise he’s grown since he came, just the slightest bit bigger than he was before.

Father’s entrance is silent as all things. Bruises are blooming on his face though none are as severe as the ghastly one around Damian’s eye. Once more, the difference between them highlighted clearly. He pauses upon seeing Damian, eyes lingering on the sword in front of Damian’s knees.

“What are you doing? Why are you dressed like that?”

“I did not wish to waste your time.”

“With what?”

Damian almost sighs, sick of this twisted test Father gives him, even now when they both know he is to leave.

“I have failed your orders. There is no place for me here.”

“You’re my son.”

“Yes,” Damian agrees, still failing to understand Father. “I am Heir. Your orders are absolute. I am not permitted to kill and I was meant to protect Drake. I failed both. I understand I can no longer live as your Heir, and that I have no right to ask this, but this body may still be of use to Grandfather.”

Father works his jaw. “All I ever want is for you to be safe and healthy.”

“This vessel will recover from the injuries I inflicted upon it.”

And now Father almost looks like he is floundering, utterly bewildered by this conversation. _I’m wasting his time further_.

“Recovering isn’t the point. You were hurt. You both were.”

“Drake _is_ more important to you.”

Father shakes his head. “No, he isn’t. I love you all, equally.”

For a moment, Damian feels a surge of anger at the lie. There is no equality when it comes to love and family. Mother chose to love Damian over his unnamed sister and even that love was a fickle thing, rare and distant. Grandfather loved that Damian was useful but would replace him with a clone that he would never love in any way that the Wayne family would understand. And for Father to say he loves Damian, loves him as he does Todd and Drake and Grayson is to insult everything that Damian has tried and failed to be.

And before he can tame his anger, he speaks out of turn.

“Then why have I not been given your name?”

The silence is terrible, but Damian does not care. He accepted that he would be returned to Grandfather, whether as Damian or a corpse Vessel. At this point, it does not matter. He has failed Father so thoroughly that nothing can possibly shame him further.

“I cannot be al Ghul under your aegis. The lessons Mother and Grandfather taught are not acceptable on your path, but even Grandfather named me. Drake carries your name. I do not. I acknowledge my failings to earn your name, but do not say we are loved equally when you have never shown me the same level of care you show to Drake. I am not Robin. I am not Wayne. I have merely been a body shield to die for the Waynes until I prove my purpose.” He gestures to encompass the Cave and everything, hands trembling in anger. “I do not know what I must do to earn your name. I do not know what I must do to be worthy of the Bat. I have ground myself down till I am but a husk and broken my bones to fit in the mould you set and yet, and yet, I am unworthy as Heir. Whatever test this is, I know I have failed and that I will fail you again and again and again.”

He breathing harshly, hurting his ribs and not caring because it feels good to speak the truth. It will hurt more later for defying Father, but it feels good at this moment.

“Father, I cannot fulfil my purpose to you, so permit me to fulfil my purpose as a Vessel and return me to Grandfather.”

“No.”

Then, Damian realises he can be shamed further because his eyes burn with tears. He understands then with startling clarity that in failing this test with Father, he has failed as a Vessel. One of the clones will be used instead.

“You would leave me with nothing,” he whispers, his hands shaking terribly.

Father is an unreadable statue.

(One day, after Father has passed, he will understand that Father felt grief and regret to the point he could not process the words being said. It will take Damian years more to understand why and he will look back at his life and be glad he was allowed to be a child despite being a soldier).

“You won’t be returning to your Grandfather,” Father finally says after further silence. “Not now. Not ever.”

What does it matter that Damian cries before his Father? He’s failed in every way. Tears will change nothing. It hurts to cry after years without being permitted to.

“I am his future Vessel. I will need to return to ensure the continuance of the al Ghul line. I cannot—”

Father silences him by tugging him by the shoulders and wrapping Damian in a crushing embrace. It is awkward, from a man who does not know how to hug, unlike Grayson who does so constantly. And yet, it only makes him sob harder.

“No. You are my son. Not a vessel. Not an heir. You’re my kid and if I have to beat Ra’s to a pulp again to leave you alone, I will.”

“I’m nothing,” he says.

“You are loved, Damian. You are allowed to be loved. You are allowed to be a child. You can be happy here. That’s all I want. All anyone wants. I’m sorry I made you feel worthless. I’m sorry I didn’t care for you better.”

“I don’t understand,” he whispers.

“That’s okay. We’ll figure it out together.”

*

*

*

He becomes Damian Wayne the next week and immediately regrets the media attention that it brings. Yet, he stares at the newspapers with something akin to pride. For whatever reason, he is now worthy of being a Wayne.

Father is… not more affectionate, but he is clearer in his intent.

“I do not want you to practice now because your wounds are still healing.”

“I want you to be with your siblings when you leave the manor because you are still a minor and I worry for you.”

“You can’t patrol yet until Alfred clears you for strenuous activity.”

“I care for you and would like to spend time with you because you are my son and I enjoy spending time with you.”

Father’s words are always stilted and awkward. At the breakfast table, the first day he says any of these things, Todd, Grayson, and Cass stare in absolute shock.

“He can use words,” Grayson whispers.

“Fuck, did that shit just happen. No way it happened.”

“I have brain damage,” Cass says. “This is brain damage.”

Father will allow a small smile. Then, Grayson and Todd will tackle him, restraining Father, dragging him to the Cave and running a toxicology screen on him. They search for mind control bugs and foreign magics.

“Holy shit, it’s just Bruce.”

Father twists his hands and frees himself of the bindings. “Are you satisfied now?”

“Fuck no. You’re definitely compromised. Someone call the Justice League. We need the lasso.”

“Master Jason, whilst this fills me with endless amusement, have you considered perhaps that Bruce is merely taking both your advice and the advice of the many parenting books you threw in his face.”

Todd blinks at him. Then points an accusing finger. “Cass, get him. Someone’s replaced Alfred.”

“Oh, for heaven’s—”

There is far too much humour following them all for Damian to worry. He sketches the scene and will paint it later. He’ll make sure to include Drake sleeping on the counter.

When he is fully healed, he patrols without a name and follows Grayson around the city, dances with Cassandra and gardens with Alfred. Todd shows up occasionally, uncouth as ever. It is strange and he feels useless, but no one pushes him to be something else. No one asks him to contort his body to become something else. And those that do are unimportant peons.

Today, he plays some inane fighting game with Drake and finally, finally defeats one of Father’s sons. In the weeks since the mission, Drake has been far more accepting of Damian, even willing to speak to him without prompting from Father and Grayson. Whatever exists between them is tentative and fragile.

“See,” Damian says haughtily. “I’m the best and Robin should be mine.”

“How the hell does Smash Bros translate to Robin.”

“It means I’m better than you.”

“You’re just you, brat. You don’t need to prove anything to me.”

“I have to prove myself worthy of Robin.”

“Did you ever ask for it?”

“Of course, I…”

And no, he hasn’t. He can recall everything perfectly, and the closest he’s come to asking was his breakdown before Father. And that wasn’t asking to be Robin.

“There can’t be two Robins.”

“There’s been more than one Batman before.”

“It is yours.”

“It can be yours as well.”

It strikes him then that if there is nothing to prove then he isn’t Heir. If he isn’t Heir, isn’t Vessel, then he doesn’t exist above the rest of humanity. If he isn’t that, then he exists on the same level as them. And that means he’s killed people who love others, who had hopes and dreams and compassion. And if he killed them, that makes him a monster.

A monster cannot be Robin. 

Robin red means hope and faith and magic in a desolate city. Damian’s red steals those things. He’s ended lives, destroyed families and communities, and brought ruin with his hands. There is nothing hopeful or magical to his hands.

Damian cannot be Robin.

Damian cannot be useful.

Damian cannot be Heir.

“Breathe, Damian. Come on, breathe. Just like me. Match my breathing.”

His head hurts and his chest burns.

“Breathe!” Drake orders and Damian inhales. “Now out. Come on, just like me.”

“No! I’m not just like you.” He struggles to get out of Drake’s arms. Drake doesn’t let go. “Just stop it. Don’t touch me.”

“You’re panicking.”

“Stop it,” he yells futilely. “Take this from me. I hate it. This is insufferable. I can’t survive this grief. Take it away, Drake.”

“What grief?”

“I killed them. I killed them all. So many. I did that. I can’t be Robin. Robin isn’t a monster.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You did this to me. Take it away!”

“No one can take away regret.”

“You can. You’re impeccable. You’re the family genius. Figure this out.”

“I’m not that smart.” Drake reaches out and takes Damian’s hands, holding them carefully. “Tell me about them.”

“Do you know how many people I’ve killed?” he chokes out, failing to stay in the here and now. He shivers terribly. “She showed me kindness. She didn’t ask me any questions. She cleaned my wounds and gave me bread. And I killed her family. It was my first one.”

He speaks slowly, telling Drake the truth of his actions. There are multitudes upon multitudes that he has ended, and his memory serves as a record of his sins.

“The girl in Istanbul, she wore a sunflower dress. Children are guileless and she was no different. She listened when I told her I’d help her find her family. And they did find her corpse in the bathtub to serve as a message to those who deny the Demon. There was a family in Yemen. I used an explosive. They died quickly.”

When he is done naming his many sins, the sun has set. Drake watches him with unknowable eyes.

“They were just people and I killed them.”

“I’m sorry,” Drake says. “I don’t know what to say that won’t sound trite and meaningless.”

That startles an exhausted exhale from Damian. “Your idiocy knows no bounds.”

He stays huddled in his room, huddled beneath a thick blanket, and refuses to leave his room. What right does he have to be someone when he’s stolen that right from others?

Father is off-world and Damian hates him for that, for not being there when he is needed most. But he isn’t alone. If not Drake, then Todd and Grayson are always with him, plying him with soup and sweets and trying their best to get him to leave.

“Don’t you feel regret for those you killed?” he asks Todd at midnight, hidden by the darkness.

Todd shrugs. “Nah but I made that choice. That’s the difference between us.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. You hate who you were.” Todd smirks. “That’s not who you are now.”

 _But I’ve never changed_ , he thinks but can’t say because his voice is tired from screaming and shouting. _I’m a monster shaped like a child._

“I’m not a good person,” he whispers to Grayson.

“That’s not true.” Grayson smiles, bringing the sun back. “You never got a chance as a kid and the moment you did you made us all proud.”

“It doesn’t change what I did.”

“I guess it doesn’t. But I… I wish you never had to, but in a way, I’m kinda glad.” Damian struggles futilely in his arms. “Let me finish. I think about life before you and I wouldn’t change it because I met Bruce and Alfred and Timmers and Jaybird and every Titan and just, well, everyone. But sometimes, when I’m about to fall asleep, I wish I could have introduced you to my Team when you were a kid. I dream we could have gone on road trips and you’d scrunch your nose at something stupid I said. I dream you were there every day and every moment. And that’s why I’m glad.”

“That makes no sense.”

“I get you every day and every moment right now. I don’t know who that Damian could have been, but I know the Damian I love. We’ll get through this together just like we always do.”

“I can’t live with this.”

“You can and you will.”

“Why?” he cries. “Why? Just let me go. I don’t—I can’t—”

“I love you too much to let you go.”

He wishes, then, that Grayson was Father instead. It is a childish and terrible wish, but it winds its way into his heart.

It is Alfred who helps him move forward. The butler merely stands in the doorway.

“I cannot tell you what you should do, Master Damian. However, I do know that the tomatoes need tending and no one is better at nurturing them than you.”

*

*

*

Damian will die. Nothing is eternal and no one is immortal. He just thought he’d have a few more years, hoped he’d have a decade, and in his most pleasant dreams he would grow old.

But no, every part of his world goes to war. It is Mother breaking ties with Grandfather to form her Leviathan faction. It is Father’s Batman Incorporated fighting League Shadows across the world. It is Grandfather siding with Father to battle Talia to double-cross Batman who sides with Talia in secret who has agents in Spyral who are playing triple agent against every faction and Gotham becomes the final battleground, the massive bounty on Damian’s head— _I am your Vessel Grandfather, my death serves you no purpose_ —drawing Deathstroke and Lady Shiva and every mercenary in the world till New Jersey itself burns and burns and burns.

Damian takes up his cape and sword and reminds the world of why he is peerless. He battles and spies and infiltrates and never once loses because the stakes are too high. If he makes a mistake, then it will be Cassandra who has an arm broken and Todd who will take a bullet to the knee. With each swing of his blade, his heart breaks and breaks and breaks because now he knows the pain he's caused and is still causing.

In the end, it is Damian captured by Grandfather who has been cornered finally, Grandfather’s blade at his neck stopping Grayson and Talia and Todd from attacking. Father isn’t here, battling the uncontrollable Heretic who killed Knight and broke Drake.

Grandfather threatens to set off nuclear bombs across the world, including this base, unless he is allowed to escape with Damian. It is madness unlike him, but these are strange times where nothing makes sense. The Lazarus Pits have been destroyed and Father’s methods of immortality are now limited.

“You’ll kill them anyway,” Damian whispers.

Damian smiles at those who came to rescue him. Only Mother truly understands what he means to do. He sees it in the slight way her eyes pinch.

He twists, and Grandfather’s blade catches at his throat and there is red and red and red, but Damian does not stop twisting, his arm lashing out, his blade singing in the air as it strikes true. He will fall to the ground, clutching at his throat, bleeding out besides Grandfather's decapitated head.

He does not die alone. Grayson holds his hand, sobbing uncontrollably, whilst Todd curses and rages. Mother simply places her palm on his forehead just as she did when he was a babe, and it’s strange that now her hand isn’t bigger than his head.

“Hafidh,” she will whisper. It allows Damian to let go, to stop struggling and accept his death.

It is a good death, one worthy of who he is. He died for his family, he died because of the love they showed him, that they proved he was worthy of, and that he can only return in this way because the world can’t lose Grayson’s smile or Todd’s anger or Mother’s efficiency.

Hell, unfortunately, is as terrible a place as people describe. It is suffering and misery and pain and everything Damian deserves for every life he took. It’s just so… plebian. For someone who remembers every moment of pain and suffering, who was raised by the Demon’s Head, this is honestly a boring diversion.

He’s contemplating how to go about escaping and killing whatever demon lord is running the place when the torture chambers around him ignite in green flames. He has barely a moment before they consume him as well.

Damian awakens to burning green rage.

Some of his reunions will be pleasant. Cass will smile and return the sword Damian thought lost but that she searched for each day whilst he was gone, wearing herself to the bone and finding peace only in hunting down everyone even tangentially related to his death. Alfred will hide his tears but the moment Damian embraces him, his real grandfather will clutch him tight and sob.

Grayson cries and holds Damian in a crushing embrace as well. He babbles a mile a minute, telling Damian about everything he’s missed in the last year.

“Stop leaking on me,” he snaps, shoving Grayson aside. Or trying to.

“No. I’m going to keep on hugging you and you’re going to deal with it.”

Not every interaction is a happy one. The cost of victory was high and Damian was not the only casualty.

Seeing Drake in a coma fills Damian with grief. It is his fault that Drake is like this. He took the blow meant for Damian again. There was no hesitation to Drake. He did it without thought and Damian cannot repay that sacrifice. He may never even speak to Drake again.

“I should have been kinder to you.”

“We all should have.”

Damian glances over his shoulder. “Hello, Todd.”

“Hey, brat.”

Todd enters fully, harsh hospital light illuminating him fully. He’s changed drastically since Damian saw him. Todd’s eyes are a pale blue, no longer the brilliant green Damian remembers. He is thinner, the strength of the Pits gone from his body. He looks frail and struggles to stand, leaning heavily on a walking cane.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing I wouldn’t do again.”

“Mother knows blood magics.”

Todd nods. “She does. Constantine helped as well.”

Damian’s read both the League’s and Batman’s files on Constantine. Working with him exacts a toll. Staring at how sickly Todd is, Damian does not want to know the full cost.

“You could have died.”

“ _You did_. “I wasn’t going to let you stay dead. No more dead Robins joining the club.”

“I’m not Robin,” he mutters.

“Somehow, you got the not being Robin part right but not the not dying part. I thought you were a genius or some shit.”

“Your idiocy is infectious.”

“And Grandfather?” he asks.

“Dead,” Todd promises. “For good.”

He learns that Mother bled Grandfather dry to extract the remaining Lazarus magics in his blood before grinding the Demon’s bones to dust, tearing his organs out and fed them to sharks, set his flesh to flame and scattered the ashes. All that remains is his heart that Mother keeps as a warning, a reminder that even the Demon dies to her wrath.

“Here,” Todd says, extending the case to Damian.

Inside rests a hooded red vest and a matching helmet. The Red Hood. The first gift Damian ever gave someone, a gift he gave to his brother. It has kept him safe and helped Todd through the worst of situations.

“I can’t take this. That’s not me. Not anymore.”

Todd grins, pulling it back. “You’re right. You’re just you and that’s all you need to be.”

“Then why offer?”

“Because I’m sad there won’t be a Red Hood.”

Damian scoffs. “All you need to be is Jason Todd.”

“Jason Todd’s dead.”

“Maybe he doesn’t have to be.”

“Maybe.”

There is one last person he must meet but finding the Bat is a futile task. Damian will wait and roam the manor until Father is ready to confront him. The tomatoes have withered, he discovers. Damian scowls.

“Really, one death and you all fall apart.”

“Did you think we cared so little?” Father asks.

Damian doesn’t startle because when you live with Batman long enough you learn to accept his sudden appearances. “I never meant to imply that.”

“Good. Because we do care. I care. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you better.”

“I made the choice. I fell where I stood for those I cared for. There are few better deaths.”

“In your sleep, surrounded by loved ones.” Father hugs him from behind and it is so strange to know that beneath the legend of the Bat is simply a man yearning for family.

“That is not a warrior’s death.”

“You don’t have to be a soldier or a warrior. You don’t have to fight to make me proud of you. I cherish you as you are, and I’ll stand by you. Today. Tomorrow. Always.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“I don’t think I want to do this anymore.”

“Then we’ll figure out what you want to do.”

“Even if I’m not good at anything?”

“So long as you try to be you, I’ll be proud.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“I love you, Damian.”

His smile is small. “I know. I didn’t always know, but I do now.”

*

*

*

Damian is older now, comfortable in his own skin.

He’s set aside his cape and swords, finding that he enjoys civilian life far too much. Death will come and with it, Hell, but that’s not for a while now. He goes to school and meets Jon Kent— _how can there be two suns on the Earth_ , he thinks after meeting another like Grayson, someone who is hope and light and joy—and joins an orchestra as the second violinist. He picks up a whole host of pets which leaves Pennyworth shaking his head in frustration— _Batcow, Master Damian?_ —but there is always a certain fondness to him, especially when Alfred the cat curls up in Pennyworth’s lap.

It is mundane and stupid and useless. Damian is allowed to be all those things for the first time. He still has nightmares of dying and hell and watching Drake get broken, but he’s learning to deal with them. 

Drake recovers from his coma but, like Damian and Todd, he puts aside his mantle. After months in a coma, and months more in physical therapy, being a fighter no longer appeals to him. The Retired Robins club, Todd dubs it.

“Dickhole, you’re not invited,” Todd snaps.

“Why not? I retired.”

“Technically he did,” Drake agrees tiredly, hunched over his coffee thermos.

Todd throws his walking stick. “Fuck you both. This is now the Retired Child Soldier Club. And Nightwing is still fighting.”

“Fine, fine, fine, I’ll let you guys have your dumb club.”

“It’s not dumb,” Damian mutters.

“What’d you say, Lil D? Can’t hear you over the sound of the super duper awesome exclusive Nightwing Club that none of you is invited to. All members have to have a sexy ass and last I checked only my posterior was magnificent.”

Drake wrinkle’s his nose. “Gross.”

“Go be a loser somewhere else, Grayson.”

“My baby brothers think they’re too cool for me. The world is coming to an end.”

“Can’t believe we’re related to that dumbass,” Todd mutters when Grayson is gone and they’ve swept the room for bugs.

“How’s Cass doing?”

“Still running from the cowl,” Drake answers.

“Fuck, she thinks Bruce won’t wear her down eventually. Dumbass. He’ll keep on doing weird shit like replacing all her suits with bat suits.”

“Wait, was that why she went to New Zealand?”

“Imbecile, New Zealand was because he took all of us to Mexico the same week a gang war happened and left her to deal with it. She had no choice but to wear the cowl.”

“She does good with it.”

“Fuck yeah she does.”

“I still find it absurd that she runs from it. She wants it. Father wants it to happen. No one would deny her.”

“Teenage rebellion?”

“Nah, she's challenging Bruce,” Todd says. “If he gives up then it means he wasn't serious.”

“People are weird.”

“Says the idiot who sleeps on any surface given the slightest opportunity.”

“I’ll have you know that I haven’t done that in all of a week. And I’ve even been getting some sleep.”

“Fuck, that therapist really did you good. Maybe I should pay her a visit.”

“I think it would help you,” Drake says softly, compassionately, and Damian is reminded of why he is beloved by all. “You as well, Damian. It doesn’t make you weak to seek out help.”

Damian has a scar now across his throat, a terribly pale thing from when he bled out and died. Sometimes, he sees it in the mirror and has a panic attack, brought back to that moment when all choices had converged to his death. His hands shake on occasion when he picks up a dining knife and nightmares of hell still haunt him.

He glances at Todd who Damian knows has nightmares and flashbacks, and at Drake who _is_ getting better.

“Maybe,” he says softly, nervously, “we should go together.”

“Fuck it, why not. Child soldiers getting therapy and sorting their lives out. Suck on that, Bruce.”

“Ew, that’s our dad.”

“Yeah, he’s our dad. Not our commanding officer. Just our dad.”

“Just our dad,” Damian murmurs in agreement.

“Man, we’re depressing. You guys wanna leak some embarrassing shit about B and Batman?”

“Tim, you’re my new favourite brother.”

“Hey!”

“Brat, you never were my favourite.”

“I will murder you.”

All told, the inaugural meeting of the Retired Robins Club is rather successful Even if the name winds up changing with each meeting, the intent is still there.

Father’s wedding to Selina a year later fills him with joy and longing. He wishes with a childish longing that it could have been Mother up there with Damian and his sister waiting in the wings, but that dream died before he was birthed.

And just like that, he knows what he must do next. Knowing the others will dissuade him, Damian vanishes in the dead of night. He makes it to the next city before Nightwing drops down, embraces him, and then lets him go again. No words are said. No words need to be said.

Returning to his childhood home is strange. Once, it had been bustling with the power of the League, assassins and soldiers and servants inhabiting it. Now, it is broken and ruined and strange. He remembers, consciously, where everything is, but his soul has forgotten. This was the place of his birth and raising, but it isn’t his home in any way that matters.

He descends through the crumbling caverns to the cloning chambers.

“Mother,” he greets politely, not at all surprised to see her.

She sits in the very centre of the room on a chair that must have been hastily brought in from whatever base she’s using these days. She always did have a penchant for the dramatic. On a side table, she has dates stuffed with goat cheese which… honestly, Damian has no idea what that’s supposed to mean at this point.

“Damian.”

“Mother. How’s Leviathan treating you?”

“How is civilian life treating you?”

“Are we going to do this every time we meet?”

“Meet? You can hardly say we meet when you only come to visit every other year.”

Damian snorts. “The terrifying Mother of Serpents can’t infiltrate Gotham to visit her child? Father would have let you come for my recitals. Been overjoyed if you did. We won a national which you knew because you’ve been tracking me every day since I came back.”

“You were made for greater things,” Mother says gently.

“The greatest thing I was made for was to make my own choices,” he hisses, refusing to let Mother control him. “This is what _I_ choose day in and day out. I neither seek nor need your approval. I moved on from you long ago.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“And yet,” Damian agrees.

Damian walks past her and towards his goal. If she stabs him whilst his back was turned, well, that’s what you get for trusting in the better nature of a serpent.

He stares at the vat containing his twin sister’s fetus and feels a pang of grief. He remembers every moment they spent together in the womb. They were gods for that brief snatch of time, complete in each other.

“What is her name?”

“I never gave her one.”

Of course. Mother never wasted time on things that do not matter. He hates her, then, burning, and vile hate. Then, he sets it aside because part of moving on is choosing how you will react, choosing what emotions you allow to define you no matter how fucked up your past was. If, after years with the Wayne family, with their affections and willingness to show Damian he is loved, if after all that he is still ruthless and cruel at times it, how can he ever expect Mother to have changed without that same chance?

“What would you name her now?”

It is the only peace offering he can give. Mother stands silently and moves beside Damian, her eyes washed out in the glow of the tank.

“I think Athanasia would be a good name.”

His eyes burn. “She didn’t need to die.”

“No,” Mother agrees. “She died anyway.”

“I didn’t see her in Hell.” Her eyes widen just slightly. “Perhaps she is out there somewhere living a life without us having a chance to be a child without you. If she is, then it will be a good and happy life. A fulfilling life. A life that you could never give.”

“You’ve become crueller.”

“More honest. You are what you are, Mother, and you should not apologise for your nature just as I will not. I don’t think I will ever come to forgive you because I can forget no moment of the past we shared. But I can move on from you, from Grandfather. I wish you luck in your goals, Mother. And if you ever sire another child, leave them with me. They do not deserve to suffer you.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, she raises her hand and lays her palm on his forehead. Damian fights back his tears because this is all they can ever have, this one solitary moment as they reminisce on the cruel past that binds them and the idea of a daughter who could never be and a sister who will always be loved. He wishes, fiercely, childishly, that he could rewrite the past and make Mother into someone kinder and gentler, but that she hasn’t betrayed him is the most he will ever ask for.

Damian will shoulder his sister’s incubation vat and return to Gotham. It greets him warmly with sirens and the stench of the docks. It is a disgusting and crime-ridden mess that no sane person should want to live in. It is home and its siren song will always call Damian back no matter how far he goes.

He heads to the family cemetery, knowing his face has been tagged by Father’s surveillance network. He trusts that they will give him space to do what should have been done long ago. His tombstone has haunted him since he first laid eyes on it.

_Damian Wayne_

_Soldier_

_Brother_

_Brat_

_The Best of Us_

He is all those things, but it isn’t everything he is. Those labels don’t fit as well as they once did. Damian digs through the early hours of the morning and delicately places his sister in the earth. By now, his family has joined him.

Father and Grayson and Todd and Cassandra and Drake will all help without question, filling the grave. They do not ask why he desecrates the family cemetery, and for that, he loves them all the more. When it is done, Damian sits down on his own headstone, facing his family.

“Her name is Athanasia al Ghul Wayne. She is my sister and she never got a chance. I miss her. I’m glad she never had to suffer as I did but I wish she got to smile and feel the sun and know you. I hate her for leaving me. I love her more than anyone and I didn’t love her enough.”

Surrounded by family, he admits to one final truth.

“I was named Hafidh before I was called Damian. It was the first time I wasn’t an object to be owned. It has been forgotten and discarded, but I don’t want it to be forgotten.”

***

These days, Damian is studying to be a surgeon. He chose to skip high school and go straight into a dual major undergraduate in Physics and Chemistry, taking a massive course load each semester and putting everyone else to shame. He’s twenty when he begins his first term in medical school.

“You know, your Grandfather was a surgeon.”

“I am aware.”

“You don’t have to do this to make me proud.”

“I do this for myself. These hands have taken many lives. It might not save as many as killing every Arkham inmate, but I’m tired of being a soldier. This is something I want.”

Grayson wraps an arm around Damian’s shoulders. Or rather, he tries to. Damian’s finally grown into his full height, towering over even Todd at his biggest. “I’m sorry B couldn’t be here today.”

“I know he is proud of me. That is all that matters.”

A thousand precious moments with Father stay with him, remembered perfectly. Father was a colossus of a man, a legend, and a hero. He died to protect his family and to protect the world. For a man like Batman, there could be no other death. The pain remains with Damian, but he tempers it with the knowledge that Bruce loved him. Father wasn't always perfect, but he certainly tried and that was enough for Damian to forgive his many failings over the years.

“Yeah, I guess it is. I love you, kid. We all do.”

“Tell the others I return the sentiment.”

Grayson’s clear laugh warms his soul. This is what he has fought for since he was born, kind words and a laugh that will be remembered.

This too shall pass, but until then, Damian will walk to the rising sun, always searching for something new and beautiful to remember. It is the greatest kindness he can give back to the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Never thought I’d be writing in this fandom but whatever. This is me just throwing in all of my favourite Batfam tropes and hoping something sticks. Bruce in this is kinda written as a response to King’s Batman run and draws largely from Tomasi’s depiction where, you know, Bruce isn’t regularly beating the shit out of his kids and occasionally knows how to show emotion to people other than Catwoman. So yeah, imagining Jason punching some good parenting into Batman was strangely cathartic.


End file.
